Calendar
by C'sMelody
Summary: Series of missed moments throughout the trilogy. AU-ish. 15th: Bartimaeus Fanday. He raised a palm to silence me before I had the chance to start with my empty threats. "Don't you feel any different?" "Yes," I pouted, "betrayed."
1. 2-Charms&Schemes (April Fools')

**So, yellow to you all (or maybe orange and green). Honestly, this date is just yet another excuse to write. (As if you need that to write some more, huh?) The idea is to turn this into a selection of some of their moments that could have happened throughout the trilogy. But never mind me, just move down and in the end rant about this all you want in the reviews section.**

**Poem**** (on deviantArt): ****art/Swig-519554728**

**Disclaimer:**** I **_**wish.**_

* * *

_There exists a soundtrack_  
_to this grinding of the years_  
_Laced with surety of purpose_  
_Steeped in tea leaves of fate_

_And we drink it down_  
_Even as we wince_  
_At the bitter whisper left on our tongues_  
_By the things we never got to touch_

_**\- Swig, **_**Bleeding Prophecies&amp;NecromanticMinstrel**

* * *

If there's something I find immensely fascinating about human race (1), is the habit of adding a ridiculous number of holidays to your calendar. Seriously, I reckon you will end up (somewhere in the near future) having a celebration _per day_. No wonder _we, spirits,_ are the ones who get the job done - laziness leads to laziness, and so on.

(1) Not _too_ fascinating, really - don't get your hopes up.

I can completely grasp the idea of the New Year's Eve celebration, and Halloween seems fun enough (2), but, please, someone do me the favor of enlightening my wits about the whole Fools' Day _meaning_. Oh, sure, let's all lie to each other - as if you don't _every single day_. Besides, try asking this to Nat at the desk over there, too busy bossing Piper and inferior co-workers of mine around to even _pay attention to __me__._

(2) Especially for us. You know, because in that day the bonds that keep us from this world are broken and-oh, never mind, I'll tell you another time.

Obviously, this is completely irrelevant. What the kid does with his life doesn't really faze me, except when things get out of control and I, Bartimaeus of Uruk, have to save the day (something that tends to happen frequently when Nathaniel's around). That or when I can use the information to backfire on him. By the end of the day, though, I'm in my pentacle and Mandrake on his. Any semblance with Nathaniel is pure coincidence, and if I am to expect a "thank you" to leave his throat, I might as well wait for all eternity.

Putting that aside, let's go back to the topic of that packed calendar of yours. Here's a fun fact I recently discovered (3) - on this day, magicians are expressly forbidden of punishing their slaves for outrightly lying. Seemingly the punishment itself _just won't work_, just like it wouldn't if the accusation was false. The rest of the article spoke of some nonsense I paid no mind to. Now, I don't intend to share this information with any of my fellow spirits, for I have a brilliantly devious plan in mind. Natty-boy will certainly pay for all the pain he has put me through these years.

(3) By finding a conveniently misplaced book in a restricted area of London's National Library, during a small, insignificant job Mandrake ordered me to do.

So, here I am, unlike any normal day around Mandrake, watching, in the form of a raven, from outside the window. He sure looks fancy today; I can tell, even from here, that he went overboard on that expensive perfume he saves for special occasions, and the clothes seem to have been carefully chosen and smoothed; his hair is that of a military cut that he got recently (4), so nothing to do about that.

(4) See 'insulting idiot' above.

He seems to be taking an awful lot of time talking to my fellow spirits under slavery. Well, I'd be a good mate and open my mouth to shout out his birth-name, but right now I value this advantage. When I'm done, the kid won't ever want to play with incense again. I could grin, only that would draw attention (5). I don't need that; I stand out so much of the crowd already I firmly believe that if I were to try and beautify my already charming appearance everyone else would be too humiliated to dare steal a glance in my direction.

(5) What, have you ever seen a grinning raven?

I was so distracted with plotting my vengeance I nearly missed the knock on the door. I don't need to see who it is. All it takes is a glance at Mandrake, suddenly jolting up and rearranging his tie for probably the hundredth time that day, to know that on the other side of the door is Jane Farrar.

Right after the permission is given for her to enter, Farrar waltzes in as if she owns the place, effortlessly keeping her organized papers in between her left hand and her hip.

They were enemies back then, ready to attack each other's throats at any chance proposed, sending loathful glances across the room at one another, etc., and now they're scheming buddies. Pft. Yeah, right. I can't seem to grasp the logic of this kid-

Oh, wait._ Hormones,_is it_? _Now _that_ explains a lot.

Well, I have to hand it to her: Farrar sure knows how to play with a hormone-driven teenager. This opinion is based off on how eager for physical contact Mandrake appears to be - besides the prolonged handshake, he keeps lingering closer as she speaks. It's the usual political nonsense. I don't think anyone should be bothered by it. Good thing the desk is in between them. (6)

(6) Farrar seems to think so too, seeing as how she subtly recoils in her chair.

Mandrake should have studied the odds before plunging headfirst into a poisonous partnership. Sure, roses are pretty, and smell nice, but they have thorns too. Of course, his basic eyesight can't really read the atmosphere, and the fact that he has zero experience in the relationship department only adds to it.

I'm so bored I'm tempted to pity Piper over there, furiously taking notes on that overused notebook of hers, to the point I'm sure the pages are filled with pen holes by now. Bravo, Mandrake, now you enslave humans too! You're quite the remarkable young magician.

Oh, there Farrar goes, leaving a flushed Mandrake behind. That was quick.

Time to make my grand entrance-

"Bartimaeus," he calls, not once removing his eyes from the piles of paper in front of him. I can't believe the kid actually spotted me outside of his window. To be honest, I wasn't even trying to hide, so it's not that surprising. "Your report - let's hear it."

Piper stands from beside him with an enormous pile of books and paper, stumbling her way out of the room. In the meantime, I easily pass through the crack between the window and the wall. It's a good thing I'm not inside the pentacle, but rather useless too, seeing as Mandrake is in his.

"So, _doctor_, after waiting for hours to be called, I step forward to complain about my drained essence, which is a result of overwork and exhaustion-"

"_Bartimaeus_," he admonishes. "The report, not your whining."

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd just let me be," I retort. Seriously, who does this brat think I am? I am Bartimaeus Sakhr Al-Jinni, the Serpent of Silver Plummes!

"I'm nearing my limit with you, demon," Mandrake warns. "Your report or your inverted skin."

"A total arse, as usual. Are you on that time of the month?" If I am to be honest here, I can't care less about his threats. I _am _outside of the pentacle. Unless he calls me in, there's nothing to worry about.

I can practically see the smoke leaving his ears, though I'm sure there's not much to burn in there.

"I would ask what is wrong with you, but since I cannot find a single thing that's right, I won't."

To resist the urge to try and punch him across the face (7), I stabbed him in my mind a couple times. "Normally I don't swear around children, but I'll make an exception for you." I pause to inhale deeply (8). "I'm _fucking tired_ _and in_ _pain_, you gigantic asshole! Can't your oh-so-brilliant skull grasp that fact? We had a bloody deal, remember? Stick to it!"

(7) Something we know to be fruitless, due to the pentacle's impediments.

(8) For dramatic effect. I don't need to.

"You egocentric excuse for a djinni!" I swiftly scan the room for something sharp to actually stab him. "I haven't even been giving you tasks that difficult!" Unfortunately, and as is usual, the room only contains the central desk, chairs, the trash can, neatly organized and piled up papers, book shelves and books sorted out by alphabet. "You're just a lazy, incompetent bastard."

_Oh_.

"You don't say!" I interject, as I walk around the small room in Ptolemy's form. "I'm ever so sorry, dearest master, for mistaking it for slavery. Please let your enlightening words guide our paths and your orders lead us to certain victory!" I immediately feel my essence boil in repulse at the just pronounced words.

"Spare me from your sarcastic comments," Nathaniel huffs. "Your report this instant, or else-"

"Or else what?" I demand, randomly taking two books from the first bookshelf.

"What do you think you're doing?" His face is now slightly alarmed. Of course, take a book from its place and Mr. Organization loses it. "Put that back or I'll make you organize everything again!"

I almost cringe at those words. Not a good memory, that of the day I had to sort all of his books one by one. You'd think a kid his age would be interested in other things rather than spending all day reading old books.

"Huh…" I fake contemplation as I take another book from its rightful place, and Mandrake tenses up a bit more. I purposely let one drop to the floor.

"_Bartimaeus!_" he hisses.

"Oops! Pardon me, my hands feel like butter!"

I swiftly throw one book at him, successfully hitting his shoulder. He steps back, quivering slightly, but he's still inside the pentacle.

"What the heck are you doing, you demon?!" His voice sounds bossy, but his face says otherwise.

"Having fun," I admit, hurling another one, but missing the target this time. "Since you bind me here, I can at least make the most of it, no?"

Well, consider this: ten points for members, twenty for his chest and torso, fifty for either his head or… you know where.

We kept going on like this, Mandrake losing his composure every time a book left the shelf, shrieking words like 'demon' and similars. I'm surprised he didn't think of imprisoning me inside the pentacle once more, but then again I don't think I really gave him a chance to.

However, when a particularly quick and strong fling hit his head (9) and he fell back with a satisfying thud (10), palms flat on his sides, I moved fast. I tackled him down before he could even blink.

(9) Fifty points!

(10) Well, I _do _hate books, so this was all twice as satisfying.

An utterly terrified look graced his face when he realized what had happened. I smirk wickedly at the sight, and he only seems to pale more. Tables have just turned.

"So, Natty-boy, you were saying?" I say slowly in a low, dangerous voice. He doesn't answer, gulping instead. That only makes my lips twitch more at the corners. I lower my head to his ear, purring, "Now that Mandrake's gone, it's only you and me, Nat." I feel something smooth heat up against my cheek. He gulps again and grabs my forearms, trembling slightly.

There are books scattered all around us, and some of the papers he had been looking over fell from his desk, flying gracefully and landing without a sound. Dust swirls about, and the old parchment and ink perfume the air.

"What shall I do first? Eat your ears?" I lick his lobe, relishing on the meat flavor, and feeling him shiver beneath me, digging his nails in my skin. It's been a while since I last ate meat, much less human's. "Chomp your fingers, one by one?" I suggest, finding his hand with mine, grasping it tightly and sliding it through the wooden floor until it's lying just above his head. "Feast on your neck?" I propose, lowering my teeth and tongue to his collarbone, and hearing him gasp sharply, his hands clutching me some more. "Suck your eyes?" I trail the same path with my canines, stopping at his cheekbone. I watch his widened, fearful blue eyes.

"B-Bartimaeus…" His voice sounds hesitant and more high-pitched than usual.

"Maybe I should devour your tongue first," I consider aloud, causing his face to turn red all of a sudden.

"G-get off!" he shrieks, squirming. I easily immobilize him, and use a simple spell to bind his arms and legs.

"Now, Nathaniel, you should know better than to interrupt a spirit's fun," I say in a mocking tone. "Ah, finally! All these years under your insufferable tongue, and now I can silence you forever. Yes, I think that's the best way to start."

"Like I said, it's not like I've given you any difficult tasks!" he exclaims. I'm surprised the kid still has the guts to talk back. However, I won't deny it's much more entertaining that way.

"My essence _aches _at every _second _spent here," I hiss. "Why are you so adamant in having _me_ around? You have plenty of other spirits at your service - although I know they can't compare in intelligence and looks." There's no response on the other side. "Really, Nat, you should remember more often that I'm privy to some golden information here, namely your birth name. What kind of idiot are you?"

"Hey!" he interjects. "There's no special reason for you to be here. It's just a random coincidence."

Really? A _random coincidence _is the best he can do? That reminds me of our previous and much more appealing topic. I press my free hand against his chest, saying, "Well, Nat, there's no special reason for me to not crush your ribcage now, is there?" I feel his heart give a jump.

"Bartimaeus, let go!" He squirms some more, trying in vain to detach my palm from his shirt.

"Any final words?" I ask, tensing my arm, ready to push.

"I'll dismiss you, okay? Isn't that what you wanted?" Nathaniel offers in a last-minute panic fashion.

I snort. "Why would I believe you? You humans are all the same - traitors and liars." I take my right hand from his, keen to break contact (11).

(11) You don't hold hands with someone you're about to crush, do you?

"I promise I'll never call you again! _Ever!_"

"_Then why did you in the first place_?" I hiss angrily, feeling my essence revolve like a contained tornado.

"I had to! I-I didn't… I can't… I just…"

Is the great magician John Mandrake struggling with words? That's new. Well, they say people act different at their death beds.

Oh, wait. Is he implying…?

_No_.

I recoil my hand a little, a twisted eyebrow rising in my forehead.

"You like my being around," I state.

"What?" he whispers incredulously, eyes once again wide. I guess it's different this time though.

"Aw, Nat, admit it! You keep me here because you actually can't live without such a refreshing presence around!" I drawl on.

His cheeks redden up a bit more, and his struggling intensifies. "What the hell are you babbling on about?"

"Tch. You look like a young teenage girl. Can't really blame-"

"Shut up! I _charge_ you to get off of me!"

I let out a sigh. I know for a fact you humans lose your composure when hormones start kicking in, but has the kid lost his brain cells too?We're clearly lying_ outside _of the pentacle_._

"You give yourself too much credit, Nat. Acting so collected as John Mandrake, but losing it when I simply sat atop of you." I feel a grin coming up. "Do you fancy me?"

"Of course not!" I swear his face will explode sometime soon. "Get off, you filthy demon!"

I jerk my head towards his before he can even blink, dangerously glaring and furrowing Ptolemy's brows as thoughts of devouring him play in the back of my mind again. He catches his breath hastily.

"Say that again," I challenge in a low growl, watching as he nervously licks his lips. I feel something in my essence stir at that - must be disgust. He's panting and blushing furiously; his eyes look bluer from this close distance, and I can practically count his few freckles.

What a hideous human he is.

"..." He doesn't mutter another word, simply staring fearfully back at me. Even if his big head can't seem to give in, his enlarged blue eyes are sending a plea towards me.

"You _do _fancy me," I insist with a smirk. The previous plan of using April Fools' Day charm as an advantage is almost rejected now. I am much better at improvising anyway.

"Aren't you just too full of yourself?" he spats back on my face. I dare say I am surprised his breath doesn't smell like incense or rosemary; it's peppermint instead. Well, he is a hygiene freak alright.

"You've got some nerve, Natty-boy, to actually talk back to a djinniwho's lying _on top of you _and has you _completely trapped." _I pause to watch him flinch. "If you don't fancy me, then why do you keep me around?"

"I already told you I-"

"Another lame excuse and I'll _really _eat your tongue."

He shut his mouth at that. I don't understand why he goes all crimson everytime I mention chomping his tongue, but there it is again.

"I do _not _fancy you, that's for certain," he mumbles with an hard thinking expression and a pout. An_ adorable _pout. (12)

(12) Nope, that wasn't me, the almighty Bartimaeus. I don't know what the writer's doing, so sue that pal and not me.

"Well, you could fool me," I tease.

He keeps his pout for another moment or two, which is quite amusing considering how his arms are bound above his head. Then, it fades, and his eyes look distant for a while. He should just give up already.

"I wonder how we can ascertain that..."

"Kiss me," he whispers. It was so quiet I'd almost swear I had misheard it. "And get it over with." There's some stupid glint of fire in his eyes I don't recall seeing before. "I'll prove to you I don't like you at all."

"Ah! You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I snarl. "Do you really think I'd dirty my essence with those putrid lips of yours? Kiss a mere human? As if!"

"Now who's chickening out?" I hear challenge in his voice, and I am most tempted to just silence him like he asks. (13)

(13) Obviously because I need to show this kid just how superior I am, by proving he indeed feels something towards me. Who wouldn't? He should just man up and admit it.

"Tch. _Fine_. But then don't cry if I prove you wrong."

It will just be a quick kiss, so there's not that much harm, is there? I mean, other than the fact I never took the initiative to kiss (14) and that humans strongly believe that's how you can tell if you like someone or not - a very fallible test, yes. Well, he's human (ew, I know). However, winning is far more important, and there might be a chance he dies of shame. That would at least trigger the tug.

(14) Does 'perverted masters' ring a bell?

I lean down my face to his once more, but slower this time. Nathaniel's eyelids look heavy and his lips are already slightly parted, awaiting mine. I feel my essence burning and pulsing, which unquestionably comes from repulse. When they met, I'm sure something inside of me exploded.

I should have switched off human's sensations when transforming into Ptolemy.

My essence is swirling around at a huge speed, the epicenter being the place where his lips are, flaming and hungry against mine. I'm nearly scared at my sudden inability to pull away, and I wonder if he's either sucking my essense or if he has managed to bind me in a magic spell I've never heard about. Was Nathaniel planning this all along?

Wait... was that a moan I just heard? Just as I thought - the kid's actually enjoying it! And why are his hands snaking up to my hair, pulling me towards him and increasing all these weird things I'm feeling, when they should be limp and bound upwards? I can't believe the spell broke.

Unconsciously, I move my lips with his, seeking more of those odd sensations. I cringe, much to my dismay, when our tongues graze, barely concealing a moan myself when he bites my lower lip. My nails carve the wooden floor. There, a mark to remind him of his foolishness.

I don't know if it's been seconds, minutes or hours, but when we do slowly separate, my essence pounding, ablaze, I watch his face with curiosity. He's still red like a tomato, his eyes are still half-lidded, bright and aglow with a burning fire, dazed with lust; and his lips are parted, wet and swollen. Again that stirring sensation is itching inside of me.

Panting, he mumbles breathlessly, "Told you I didn't fancy you."

"Liar," I simply whisper back in a hoarse voice, not taking my eyes off of his.

"I am," he agrees with a resigned sigh. In that moment, a faint white light surrounded him. It was for a mere second and very easy to miss if you didn't have access to the seventh plane. "Bartimaeus?"

I can't bring myself to answer him. I'm so embarrassed. And speechless to boot!

He sheepishly touches my forearms again, softly this time, and I didn't care enough to shove him away. I dare say my essence rejoiced on the contact.

This is so wrong.

We are too different - in _every _possible aspect. He should just let me go now, but no, Nathaniel just had to pull me down to him, and crawl his hands up to my shoulder blades. The worst part is that I don't want him to remove them.

This is so, _so_ wrong.

In my confusion, I can't make out his quiet, whispered words, but seemingly he isn't planning on letting go for a while.

It's all his fault. All his fault and his glowing eyes, and his hesitant, demanding kisses, and his damn taste, and his arms keeping me there.

He even got me to ramble! Stupid Nathaniel.

I'm almost surprised when I feel the tug. I eye him once more, trying to register his impenetrable facial expression. Maybe Nathaniel acknowledges the fact that we are different, that I'm old; maybe he's as disgusted as I am, maybe he regained his sanity, or maybe he remembered I could kill him whenever I pleased.

However, for a moment, a part of me hesitated.

Slowly, I let my head fall in the crook of his neck, nuzzling him one last time, and feeling his arms tighten their grip around me.

I finally give in to the tug, certain that this incident would never be attented to again; crashing into dust against him before disappearing, defeated by the stupid charm I thought would make me have an advantage.

The stupid, stupid charm that had all but backfired on me.

* * *

**Ah, please, feel welcomed to point out to Bartimaeus what's going on. Seems to me he's in denial.**

**Also, ignore him and don't sue me; I'll just dust off back to the Other Place myself.**


	2. 3-Phantoms&Playgrounds (Halloween)

**I'll put up a poll on my profile page concerning this fic, so if you have a minute, go there.**

**Yesterday I was looking for some music to inspire me while I (wrotemostofit) finished this installment, and you wouldn't believe the amount of doors screeching, meowing cats, screaming people, whistling winds and howling wolves I've put up with. Dear life, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm so moving on to Christmas mode.**

**And more importantly, I am going to use this space (yes, because I can, muahahah) to put up a candy shop and hand out bags full of 'em for my lovely reviewers. This is all I can do to answer to my guests, too, so take them all! And remember, there's more from where those came from. ;)**

**Poem**** (on deviantArt): /art/Remnants-522369486**

* * *

_Stagnant as the longnecks beside them  
I held to a bloodshot eye like telescopes  
I hoped could show me some kind of truth_

_Where my hands come to rest_  
_They come to linger atop dust_  
_from a thousand petrifications_

_The sands of precedence_  
_shaded by my restless palms_  
_as I wait for the shaking to stop_

\- **_Remnants,_ Bleeding Prophecies&amp;NecromanticMinstrel**

* * *

John Mandrake hated this ridiculous case almost as much as he hated Halloween. No, it is obviously not due to the Jack-o-lanterns or to the trick-or-treating business that showcased nothing less of the poor education commoners received at their homes. Whatever foolish actions they acted upon once the holiday arrived concerned him not, and on a scale from one to ten he could honestly say his annoyance at the children's behavior would hardly grow to a two. Those results, however, might be attributed to the fact that John could not even spare the time to open the door and threaten to send Ascobol after them if the sole idea of trying any monkey business ever crossed the kids' minds. Just a week before Bartimaeus had remarked such words, and hadn't failed to also point out how much of an _adult _John had become. To make matters worse, that old bastard had had the gall to use a somber tone! As if maturing was ever a bad thing!

Then again, if he allowed room for a small inner debate, Nathaniel would suggest that perhaps he hadn't been paying Bartimaeus much attention lately. Promptly, John would retort that according to tradition – a very encouraging reference, he reckoned – master and servant would not need to spend more time together than necessary; once the charges were set and the mission accomplished, all that was left was to move on to a newer task, if that was the case, or to go separate ways. Understandingly, as John had been exposed to an increase on his workload, he needed aid accordingly.

Plus – and both halves of his identity agreed on this part, although for different reasons – Bartimaeus is a distraction; a big one, too, and John wasn't really in the mood to deal with Bartimaeus' sarcasm and witty comments, or their glaringly visible sexual tension, or his own urges, or the amount of unanswered questions he would have to deal with if he succumbed to such again. Frankly, anything involving Bartimaeus sounded like an enormous headache at the moment. Knowing this, John hushed Nathaniel's mild indignation and focused on the task at hand.

Two fruitless hours later, the young magician dropped his head on his hands and rubbed the temples with an aggressivity that would unlikely do any good to his case. He ignored the first knock on the door, but by the second and most vehement one, he growled his permission to enter without doing so much as lifting his gaze from the papers he had been looking over.

Piper sheepishly came in, carrying a handful of letters and a disheveled look that John didn't fail to notice.

"Again?" he asked.

"Y-yes."

He sighed, positively exhausted from having to deal with that stupid servant that kept on harassing his secretary. "I'll take care of him later. Did you separate the correspondence as I asked?"

"Yes, sir." She handed him the letters. "Anything else?"

"No, Piper, that's all for today. You can go home."

If John had looked up that moment, he would have seen an interesting mix of emotions on his assistant's face: the happy and relieved look of a workaholic who had just been given an unexpected holiday versus the disappointment such caused as well, for specific reasons that don't need to be mentioned for understanding. Above all, Piper was a pragmatic young magician, so she promptly took her leave.

John eyed the letters with disdain. Obviously money was not a problem for him, so paying the bills didn't come with the stress most people have to face. However, it was as boring a task as one of Makepeace's "masterpieces", and so he preferred to get it done and over with as soon as possible. He opened the first one, read it and took note of the amount on his accountability paper (a sure thing once you are as organized and methodical as John Mandrake). The remaining letters were treated the same way. All but one.

John furrowed his eyebrows at the last letter. It was addressed to him from the Prime Minister's secretary, and seemingly it all pointed to another invitation for one of those parties John was always absolutely delighted to come to. Running his fingers through his head – because old habits die hard and it is of no significance if one no longer has enough hair for the intended effect – John debated whether or not to open it. Nonetheless, that indecision was short-lived, because he knew he would have to deal with it sooner or later.

So, grimly, he opened it to find something unexpected. The paper was blank. Now that is such an anti-climax, John mused. A distracted secretary wouldn't last very long, he reckoned, much less at the Prime Minister's hands. That gave him a little satisfaction.

John was about to put it down when something caught his attention: the smell. The sickly sweet aroma wafted from the piece of blank paper. That is certainly doubly odd. He removed it from the envelope, only succeeding in accentuating the stench. He paid no mind to the lightheadedness, since these days eating and sleeping came second and dizzy spells always seemed to find him at random moments.

Carelessness is not a magician's common trait, much less John Mandrake's, but in that moment he proved how human he actually is. The last thing he did before collapsing on the floor was turning the piece of paper to meet the other side with the following message:

_What is your worst fear?_

**4.**

_Four-year-old Nathaniel would have said ghosts, the dark, and the boogie man, of course. While living with his parents, few of the memories that had remained glued to his brain were those of his father's horror stories. The lantern he held, the light distorting his face into that of a monster lingered in his mind for hours after the story had been told. His smile – yellow and broken, almost toothless – was the model Nathaniel used for his darker nightmares. And his father's cackles resonated throughout the room even after they'd ceased (that had always been a phenomenon acoustic rules couldn't explain). _

_When the story was finished, his father would slowly close the door before completely vanishing from sight, revelling on the creaking sounds it made. On most nights, as the storm raged outside and his only window was violently attacked by merciless rain and the howling wind, the lamp in his room would feebly attempt at staying alight, but they weren't rare the times it failed and left Nathaniel alone with the moon and its creatures. _

_Mom worked nights, he remembered, so he only got to see her in the morning, or when by some miraculous chance she'd stop by his room and open the door to check on him before going to bed. Just a trace of light and the monsters would recoil in fear; how ironic. Her head would pop up, always with tired eyes and wild hair in a messy bun, and Nathaniel would pretend he was sleeping. She'd go in if he did, and touch his hair and rearrange the crooked bed sheets and blankets he'd wrestled with, mistaking them for ghosts. _

_Those were the best memories he held of such age. Now he couldn't even make his mother's face from the bundle of images that assaulted his mind every time he tried to trek back, or how his room looked when the first dim rays of sunlight greeted him in the morning, vacuuming it clean of myths and nightmares._

The first time he came to could be classified as the vertiginous falling of a rock from a cliff due to the short-lived nature of the event. It would be quite fine had he fallen on water or a bed of feathers, but he had to obviously have fallen on the pavement, and face-first, too, to add to the dramatic vein of his semi-conscious brain. This is, of course, a punnish phrasing Bartimaeus would enjoy making fun of, just to say that John felt as if he had been run over by a train. No wonder our dearest magician went back to unconsciousness shortly after waking up to such unpleasant sensations.

**6.**

_At the age of six, Nathaniel saw his father's horror stories come to life._

_He didn't talk about it, quite literally for one whole week, too. Nathaniel was most convinced that if he just didn't say anything regarding "the incident", as they'd call it from then on, the claws and the hair in places it didn't belong, the bugged out eyes that were way too tiny for their heads and the way those eyes had locked on him as if he were the last piece of meat on an island of desperate cannibals would just evaporate from his memory. Just like his parents had. Except that, this time, he wanted them to disappear. He didn't want to have anything to do with those monsters, those demons, ever again. He wanted his mother to keep her promise and come back to pick him up at the park at half past three. Just like promised. Why couldn't it be?_

The second time, he lasted a bit longer.

John Mandrake opened his eyes in the vaguely expectant state of seeing his office's ceiling and maybe Piper's worried stare, only to be disappointed. Feeble hopes grant feeble wishes. Or at least that's what Mrs. Underwood used to say. His eyes couldn't catch a single glimpse of light, and adding the fact that his eyelashes' fluttering didn't collide with fabric and he had been furiously blinking for the past minute, for more than a terrifying moment John wondered if he had suddenly turned blind.

Suddenly, a most terrible stench assaulted his nostrils. John couldn't really classify it, albeit the nagging reminder that came from the back of his head, highlighting that this smell was familiar. And not for very good reasons to boot. It reeked of death. He inhaled sharply, wishing to have the strength to actually clamp a hand against mouth and nose; his commands were always met with great resistance.

It goes without saying that he was still aching all over, and that his thoughts were all bundled together, blurring into a temporal mass of which he could only make out certain common elements that did little to appease him. This sudden realization of what the stench actually was only made his head spin and enhanced his confused. Something propelled him to reveal his thoughts aloud, but John had always been in excellent control of himself, and frankly, the young man could barely manage to produce a whimper; what makes us think he will be able to unfold his darker secrets in such state?

It must have been the bottomless darkness that forced him into unconsciousness again, or maybe a strong instinct of self-preservation.

He could have sworn he had heard a swooshing sound right before losing conscience again.

**8.**

_By eight he had outgrown his fears. Or so he claimed. _

_Nathaniel had started surreptitiously sneaking into his master's library at the wee hours of night to learn everything he could about demons and how to deal with them. However, one of the reasons for this behavior can be unveiled if one thinks about what deprives young human beings of their sleep. The truth is the poor kid still had nightmares haunting him._

_Almost every book alerted to the various tricks said monsters had up their sleeves. All but two dusty ones Nathaniel accidentally discovered a certain night. One was about some sort of gate, written in old Egyptian, which surprised him because of its progressive content. That is, as far as he could tell with the basic studies of the language he possessed and the aid of a small dictionary._

_The other, presumably ancient-er, was about some sort of legend regarding October 31st. Nathaniel found that out from the rough translation scribbled all over the pages, which he had recognized as his master's minute, pointed and narrow-spaced handwriting. He had squinted his eyes while surveying the pages, silently wishing he could turn on the lights instead of having to resort to that petty flashlight. Of course it had nothing to do with the dark or with the odd sounds that came from the walls! _

_It was a rather frustrating read, especially since some words weren't included in his vocabulary. Those were properly taken care of: noted on a small piece of paper and folded for later extra self-study. It seems as though some traits are early developed._

_The little one was soon engrossed by it. His pupils often grew wider, and he would pull the book closer as he grasped the binding more tightly when another bombastic discovery was landed on him. He definitely could not share of his master's opinion, which was clearly expressed by the end of the book, written in capital letters and furiously underlined:_

BULLSHIT

_From that night on, the small demons that had been the protagonists of his nightmares ceased to come. His mind was too busy with other things._

Third time's the charm, they say.

The cold awakened him. Warm fingers pressed against his torso made a statement of contrast while he shivered… from _what_ he didn't know. A hot exhale tickled his ear. John felt his heart leap, run as if it were being chased by the boogie man, much like as if he was four again and his imagination was running wild. His throat was dry, strangling a scream that wanted out; the tongue caged inside his mouth refused to collaborate much.

"Barti… maeus?"

Hope is what last leaves you, is it not? So hopeful was his tone, albeit hesitant too. The snort was muffled, filled with contempt, and the only reply to his deranged state of mind. John didn't need to see to know that this was not his spirit servant. The fingers moved upwards slowly, as if trying to lull him, but John knew better. A single nail traced up his neck, going up and down in perfect sync with John's Adam's apple as he gulped down another choked scream. It reached his chin, leaving his skin with a provocative promise of unfinished business. Just then John noticed, while letting out a very shaky breath, that the finger had left behind a line of viscous substance. He immediately reprimanded his brain before it could provide him with a series of pictures that would certainly scar him.

Pride and status are two very frivolous things, he reckoned, especially when you don't know what you've gotten yourself into.

"I've been watching you for a while." The voice was low, definitely belonging to a man, and it sounded almost like a purr to his ears. Ironically, it poked at his memory, albeit fruitlessly; John couldn't place it. Surely given the situation he is not to blame.

The tremors still taking over his body, pumped with adrenaline, he tried for the first time to get up. Unsuccessfully. Suddenly it all made sense: that he hadn't been able to move his hand before, that he couldn't get up now. The shackles around his wrists and ankles were attached to whatever cold and seemingly rocky material he was lying down on. They weren't too tight, so that was probably why he hadn't noticed them before. Now that he was moving around to find a weak spot, he could tell by the friction that they were rusty. John's brain immediately stored the information. Maybe it wouldn't be impossible to break them if they were as old as they felt.

A few dry sniggers later, and he was back to his crawled skin and erratic heart beating. John imagined Bartimaeus would be snorting too if granted with such a pathetic display of his lack of courage. And that made his blood boil, because, if anything, he didn't want Bartimaeus to think of him as a weakling, pitiful human being, no matter if he was around or not to see. Thus, gathering his remaining magician self, he asked, "What do you want?"

"Me? A mere tour of engaging entertainment, which you'll devotedly provide, won't you?" John could hear the mocking in his voice.

"It seems as though I have no choice," he answered carefully, ears alert to any type of signal that could help him read the atmosphere.

"Good-no, great." More sniggering. "You see, dearest child, it is all up to you whether or not I'm entertained enough this Halloween. So, so many have failed before you." His kidnapper sighed in a way that could be interpreted as a recalling of past experiences gone wrong. "Maybe you'll learn, while you're here, from them."

John could _hear _the smile in his voice. And even through the thickest of darkness, he knew that his own face had lost all of its color. The stench seemed to incredibly intensify as realization did a macabre dance in front of him – one he did not need to see to know how the choreography went; one he did not need to hear to hum the tune.

"You won't be so lonely like that, will you?" the voice continued in a taunting whisper. John heard a few steps, but they soon came to a halt. "Ah, one more thing." The rasping of the shoe's rubber sole gave away that his abductor had turned to face him again. John waited in blind suspense as he debated how to deliver the next bit of information. "This… swooshing sound I suppose you've already grown accustomed to… just know that at every infraction or, let's say, glimpse of boredom, it'll get closer and closer and closer…" The voice diminished in volume at each passing word; so much so that John strained his neck forward to catch the last words. "...until that's all and the last thing you'll ever hear."

And with that and a curt snicker, John was left alone with his raging thoughts.

**10.**

_Nathaniel was a pretty impressive child by the time he turned ten._

_In a society where computers exited solely for decoration and a ridiculous amount of hours copying documents that could be saved by simple technology was something constantly overlooked, a child had obviously more than enough time to learn dead languages and put them to use. So Nathaniel did._

_That foreshadowing myth he had encountered two years prior was still very much alive in his brain, and for the last couple years after reading those scribbles, the 31st of October became a dreaded date. Every time it came around, Nathaniel would almost morph into a devoted Christian and pray to the almighty God that no demon sought him on that day. _

_But maybe God has a secret agenda or he simply saw it fit to indulge Nathaniel on his nightmares again._

_That year the poor kid had another face-off with an imp of his master, which had apparently disobeyed an order and wrecked havoc to get out of the house. And had, obviously and accordingly to the laws of Murphy, ran Nathaniel over on his way out the nearest window to the kitchen. And remind his father's bedtime stories and his mother's soothing presence he did._

_From that day on, Nathaniel became obsessed with finding a way to keep those demons in their pentacles with no chance of escaping whatsoever. Mostly out of fear for his own life, for such young age doesn't allow for one to have access to things such as perspective, selflessness and understanding of other's actions._

One hour later, John had figured two things out: one, he was nearly a hundred-percent sure that this lunatic was the same as the one in the case he had been pointlessly working on up until now; and two, the classic I-need-to-go-to-the-bathroom trick had only worsened his situation. Since Bartimaeus is not presently here to properly comment on John's lack of creativity, let's dwell further on the first topic.

This intriguing case had fallen on his lap out of nowhere – the case of the Halloween murderer that striked once every Halloween for over a decade now. His – as John now came to know that the murdered is a 'he' – victims were never found afterwards, neither dead nor alive. Some suspects had been arrested, but when the event repeated itself the following year, the police had to let them go. It had been speculated that there was more than one person involved, but no proof pointed towards that direction either. Also, what was even more intriguing in this already bizarre case was the fact that no traces of magic were detected.

John could only wonder why he – Minister for Information – had been appointed to the case. However, he had obviously seen there an opportunity to show off to the Prime Minister, and so he put all his efforts on it. What he didn't expect was to be _this _much involved in the case.

John had lasted longer than most of the unfortunate souls that had ended up there, and he knew very well why. It appears that Luck had finally noticed his existence. In other words, his kidnapper had a predictably dark sense of humor, and took great pleasure on other's suffering, so all Nathaniel had to do was recall some of his past adventures with Bartimaeus' point of view in mind. While it had been quite the work at first, there are some things that years of working side by side and life-threatening situations do to people, and one of them is learning how to put yourself in the other's shoes. Now John is quite the narcissistic young magician, but Nathaniel's curiosity and thirst for knowledge overlapped into a useful tool. All in all, it urged him to make a mental note to himself to thank Bartimaeus for his services. But honestly, both you and I know he will not do such thing.

"I'm hurt you don't seem to recognize me."

John had been distracted; letting his head wander elsewhere. He pushed down the urge to beg to be released once more.

"I have been told that my eyes are wasted on me, and that I oftentimes cannot see what's standing right in front of me." And the amazing thing is this is an accurate statement. No need to point out who the kind soul that provided this insightful critique is.

More sniggering. Good. John had learned that his sniggering was a good sign.

"Indeed. But those are such pretty eyes you have there, I've been told. I wonder how they'd look on me."

It was freezing, and John was well aware of that, but the drops of sweat were still accumulating on his forehead. The young magician took in a deep breath, only to regret it right afterwards. He ignored the urge to hurl, and concentrated on his survival.

"They are so ordinary. I'm sure yours are much more interesting." No, that was not enough. "I mean, I know some people with extraordinarily beautiful eyes."

He scoffed. "You do, indeed. There's a girl that keeps coming into your office. Ms. Jane Farrar, isn't it? Such pretty eyes, it seems. And there's also your lovely secretary, Ms. Rebecca Piper." John didn't know whether or not to show surprise at this point, so he chose the later and let him continue. "And there's also an Egyptian boy that comes quite a lot. Now _those _must be the most beautiful eyes. I wonder… would you get them for me?" When John didn't respond right away, he proceeded, "I'm well aware of the nature of your relationship. But see, Naughty Natty, if you choose to hand him over, you're free to go. Think about it."

An explosion caused millions of shards of glass to come crashing down on him, piercing his body as if it were made of paper. Telling himself it was all in his head did nothing to weather the storm.

**12.**

_Meeting Bartimaeus did rock Nathaniel's world. Not in the way waxing poetics might promise first impressions are key, but more along the lines of how books, common knowledge and certainties had all been thrown out the window by the time their lives became inevitably linked. After all, trusting your life to the demon itself – although in desperate circumstances – is synonym to showing disregard for all the rules you've been taught to respect, prioritize and oftentimes worship._

_It started when Bartimaeus became privy to his birthname. After that, a series of inexorable events catapulted him towards a nagging questioning of the teachings he'd been fed for the last six years of his life. Nathaniel had forgotten how one shakes when real fear strikes. But Bartimaeus had made him re-learn that. Again, and again, and again._

_And, because back then he still regarded integrity with a sense of prideful conviction, he had let Bartimaeus go, strictly convinced he would never summon him again. Above all, strictly convinced he would do better next time he summoned a demon, for he would drown himself in books before he lost to another one._

_However, there are things stronger than fear and self-preservation (and even books, too). Nathaniel just didn't know that at the time. Maybe he still doesn't; maybe he does._

"No," is what he had been this close to say. "No, you can _not_ put your filthy hands on my servant." Followed by, "No, you can _not_ have him in any way, for he is–"

No. God forbid he even finished that sentence in his mind. At the rate this was going, John wondered if the man could read it like one reads a book. Certainly not… right?

Ramblings aside, this hesitation had cost him more than he could afford at the moment. Ironic, he reckoned, when that same morning he had been reflecting on how bills and money come easily and nearly without self-sacrifice other than work to him. The swooshing sounds were closer and clearer; John could even feel the air on his face. It acted like some sort of pendulum, as far as he could tell, which broadly meant he'd be dead meat in no time.

Perhaps handing over Bartimaeus on a plate wasn't such a bad idea. Bear with him, the poor, poor magician cuffed to a stone. The lunatic would never be able to poke Bartimaeus' eyes out; he'd die trying. And then Bartimaeus would take him out of there.

Unlikely.

In fact, John could very well picture Bartimaeus purposely leaving him there: to die of dehydration, starvation, infection (due to the friction, the handcuffs had already left some scratch marks on his wrists and elbows), etc.

"I have a question," John said, very much aware that the other man was lurking nearby. He took the silence as an encouragement. Well, the worst that could happen was for him to be literally talking to the walls, right? "Why did you choose to cut off my vision, yet not done so permanently?"

"That's a very magician-like question to ask," the other remarked with a scoff. "When human beings are deprived of one of the five senses, the others enhance their… abilities, so to speak, to be able to compensate."

John waited a while before speaking up again, "That doesn't really answer my question."

"Oh, but it does." Again he could _hear _the smile in that raspy voice.

He pondered the words. Then, horrified, he whispered, "You want us to perceive the sounds and smells better."

"Indeed. And, above all, I've entertained you for so long. Ain't I so nice?"

"Very much so," he hissed, fighting the tears that were starting to form.

John knew he had lost this game there. This wasn't a matter of winning or losing, either. His destiny had been traced since the moment he had opened that sodding envelope. Suspicion had been spreading through his deranged brain since their second exchange, but right now, and partly due to this last statement, it ran like poison.

So John ventured because he had nothing else to hold on to. "You're blind, aren't you?"

The cackles. Those cackles, they made his skin crawl again, his blood flow like a torrent, his brain halt and recoil inside his head; they were the only confirmation he needed. Nightmares. Nightmares are something you can wake up from. But not this.

"Do you recognize me now, Naughty Natty? I'm your worst nightmare."

And that sweet aroma came back in full force. It was turning into a bad habit, but also one he could not deny. John lost consciousness in the middle of a battle to stay awake.

**14.**

_Fourteen years of existence is a decent age, Mandrake reasoned, especially when you've accomplished so much already. He wished his mother could see him then; she'd certainly be proud of him. And he wished his father would too – that would teach him where a good commoner's place was, and how his ridiculous horror stories didn't affect him anymore._

_That logic was obviously a faulty one, as Bartimaeus might or not have pointed out to his face. Maybe right after he had deflated Mandrake's ego to the size of a bean with a series of sardonic comments to his appearance and personality traits. Or maybe his downcast mood could be justified by the information he'd gotten not long afterwards, stating that his mother was no longer among the living._

_That night – as he twisted and turned in his bed, images of the fire that had killed the Underwoods burning his sleepless mind – he decided the 31st of October was simply cursed._

_However, dead people don't come back to haunt you with promises of revenge like Bartimaeus does. Neither do they actually hold a significant weapon rightly aimed at your Achilles' heel, nor can they be summoned by others to deliver golden information about you. Again like Bartimaeus. And most definitely they do not know how to drive you up a wall and make you question everything or fill you with a sense of unknown and unidentifiable emotion. Just. Like. Bartimaeus. Does._

_Cursed he was, definitely._

"Oi."

Poke.

Poke.

Pokepokepoke.

"John Mandrake is incredibly gay and he very much enjoys–"

"Hush, Barti... 'm up. Geez," Nathaniel grumbled. He was about to do his morning ritual – consisting of stretching and yawning and rubbing his eyes (not necessarily in this order, and not necessarily separatedly either), when he noticed something was very, very wrong. Why, he was handcuffed.

"Barti?"

"Nightmare-oof! Real…" His mind was still dazed by the aftermath of that aroma he still could not identify, and his tongue tangled by the enormous amount of words that wanted to be released at the same time.

"Oh, you are so coherent right now."

"Wait! Whattya doin' 'ere?"

"While I find it refreshing that you've decided to become a rap star, this is no way to greet someone you've been incessantly calling."

"What? I didn't-_oh_." That startled him awake. Nathaniel had completely forgotten about it. His body was screaming at him to stop moving around, so he did.

"Ooh what?"

"The curse."

"Ah, so you now about it."

"And you do, too?"

"Duh." Nathaniel was becoming an expert in guessing what the other person – or, in this case, djinni – was doing even though he could not see. For example, now he knew Bartimaeus had just rolled his eyes at him. "I never actually thought it was real."

"Me neither…" Pressing matters, he reminded himself, pressing matters. "We've got to get out of here."

"For the Other Place's sake, can't I even take a break from you on my only holiday since forever?"

"He's after you too," Nathaniel tried meekly. Right after that came out, he inwardly chastised himself for the tone he had used.

"Terrified."

"_Bartimaeus_–"

"And what's with all these corpses around here? Disgusting."

So that proved his theory was correct. Nathaniel felt a shiver run down his spine. To think he could have ended up like them – a piece made of flesh and bone thrown against others like him. But now that Bartimaeus was here, there was hope. If only he could convince the djinni to save him…

"Bartimaeus–"

"Shh. I'm trying to break the chains."

Well, it didn't take much for him to be convinced. Nonetheless, this was not the time to ponder on the djinni's motivations, for he was being incredibly loud, and Nathaniel feared they would be caught. He told him so.

"So what? I'll aim a Detonation at his face. He's obviously not a magician."

"Yes-no… I mean… He's my father."

Bartimaeus stopped abruptly and the chain gave. Nathaniel sighed.

"I thought you'd said you have no good memories of him," Bartimaeus murmured.

"I don't. But I don't want him dead."

"Is this because of that human connection you have to your parents even when they treat you like crap and–"

"_No_," Nathaniel interrupted stubbornly. "I don't want him dead, _because _I want him arrested. I want him to suffer the consequences. I want him to pay for what he's done to me and all these people."

Bartimaeus was astonished for a few seconds, but resumed his activity soon afterwards. That is, Nathaniel felt him moving closer. Just like how he had assessed that morning, Nathaniel reckoned Bartimaeus _is _a distraction.

"You know, I can't see you, but that doesn't mean I can't hear you or feel your presence. Why are you so close?"

"Because I'm trying to break the chain that's holding down your hands, why else?" Surely enough, Nathaniel heard Bartimaeus pull at the chain right after that, but he reckoned he'd been lied to. He fought the small smile that insisted on poking at his lips, because he couldn't see, but knew Bartimaeus was starring.

"Are you hurting somewhere?" Nathaniel briefly wondered if he was dellusional, or if the second round of that weird smell was causing hallucinations. "I'm only asking because I'll have to know when we break free. Or do you want me to not mind your injuries?"

"No, of course not. And I guess I'm okay." Again, Nathaniel was reminded of something the moment the second chain gave. "Wait, what are these made of?"

"Not silver, and not iron, or else I'd be screwed." Nathaniel let out a sigh of relief. "You know, you should be more worried about the blade that's been hovering over our heads."

And, as if hearing them, the rope holding it gave. Bartimaeus pulled Nathaniel just before the blade sliced the stone almost in two. Heart furiously beating, panting, and with skin crawling, Nathaniel grasped Bartimaeus' forearms very much like a cat would hold onto fabric.

"You know, Natty boy, not that I mind your nails at this point, but we have company."

Frustrated that he still couldn't see, but appeased that Bartimaeus' eyesight was far greater than his, Nathaniel fumbled in his head for what to do, what to say.

"Now, now, Naughty Natty, this is not what we agreed on." Nathaniel noticed how the voice sounded different. He reckoned his father should be feeling frustrated. Not once in the last seventeen years had a prisioner escaped.

_Oh_.

"You started doing this just before I was born. Why?"

That sniggering was really starting to get to him. Nathaniel was pretty sure that if he got out of there alive, he'd be having nightmares for a while.

"I never wanted you, kid. Your mother did. So she sold you off to protect you, when she noticed I would do the same to you."

"You killed her, didn't you?"

"She knew too much."

Nathaniel felt like someone had taken all the oxygen away from him. His grasp on Bartimaeus didn't loosen one bit.

"Well, what a great family reunion. Too bad we have to get going, right?"

"No one's going anywhere!" he bellowed. Nathaniel heard something clicking ahead of him.

Bartimaeus tut-tutted at him. "Dear, foolish human being, don't be rude to your guests." Then his voice dropped an octave. "If I say we're going, we're going." Nathaniel felt the baby hairs on the back of his neck rise at the dark undertone. Just before he could say something, he was abruptly scooped up. Bartimaeus hopped just before a swooshing sound sliced the air where their heads had just been. The young man wondered how a blind person could tell where they were with this level of accuracy, but hastily put his musings aside for another time in which his life wasn't being threatened.

Besides, he wouldn't get to wonder much, because the moment Bartimaeus blasted the door open and the light from the hall entered the room he'd been prisioner off (nearly blinding him in the process, too), Nathaniel had an unwelcomed feeling of _dejá vu_. His father held another blade, aimed at him. Bartimaeus, acting on impulse, blasted a Detonation even when Nathaniel screamed at him not to.

Silence.

Nathaniel dared a peek at the man that had almost taken everything from him. The light distorting his face into that of a monster, the ghost of his smile – yellow and broken, almost toothless – was the model Nathaniel knew he'd use for his darker nightmares once more. And his father's cackles resonated throughout the room even after they'd ceased.

Gasping for oxygen, Nathaniel once more went to dig his nails on Bartimaeus' forearms. But there was nothing but air there.

The djinni had disappeared.

* * *

**What? You've discovered that my middle names are Procrastination and Unpredictableness? Here, have a cookie, Sherlock. _However_, you'll be happy to know that either tomorrow or the day after I'll be posting the second part. Probably the later. You're welcome.**

**Yes, it is my first time writing something of this nature. No, I don't know what I'm doing.**

**So, how many of you put a costume on and walked around trick-or-treating your neighbours?**


	3. 4-Contradictions&Requests (All Souls')

**Poem ****(on deviantArt): /art/Remnants-522369486**

**Before we start, I have to give a massive, public, ****heartfelt, ****colorful with sparks and stars galore thank you to **SoulErrorArwitch** for this gigantic, wild review that suddenly popped up from out of nowhere and was super effective and made my idiocy levels sharpen to their max.**

**On a different note, I'm sorry about the inconsistencies you might face. As you might have guessed, I didn't really have much time to put this one together.**

**Well, enjoy.**

* * *

_Daybreak found me_

_scraping stardust_

_out from under my nails_

_What I found there_

_reminds one of origins_

_from comic books in basements_

_(…)_

_Down here, where time_

_intertwines with seeking_

_I am every road not taken_

**– **_**Remnants**_**, Bleeding Prophecies&amp;NecromanticMinstrel**

* * *

I am not proud to say that by the time the tug registered in my revolving essence, I'd been impatiently floating around in the Other Place. It has been two thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight years since the last time that I've so quickly jumped onto Earth upon being called. Not that resisting ever resulted in a day off or a general pleasurable event, but it at least gives you a twisted sense of pride.

This time, I completely left out the smoke and the nasty smells, the horns, the jaws, the claws – the whole shebang in favor of Ptolemy's form. He was standing right in front of me, in a disheveled bundle of casual attire, restless face and fidgety hands. His eyes gleamed with recognition and what I guessed could be called as a bit of relief.

"Bartimaeus," he breathed.

The Egyptian boy crossed his arms in front of his chest; his eyebrow hopped in expectation. Those actions startled the magician into an apprehensive state. However, he rapidly gathered himself – his lips were forced into a thin line, his fingers put to use by the anxiously rubbing of the back of his neck. He looked the part of a lost lamb in a land of lions; he looked much more like Nathaniel than John Mandrake.

"My, oh my, don't you look dreadful," I remarked with a smirk.

"So I've been told," he said with a hint of resent on his voice. "It's not like I've been getting any decent sleep."

"You don't say." My smirk only widened. "Been too busy wiping dust off your brain?"

He glared at me, just like I predicted he would. As long as he is Nathaniel, I can easily thick him off. Whenever he turns into John Mandrake it makes things much harder for my entertainment.

"No. I've been too busy cleaning up after the mess my father caused during all these years. Hiding his relation to me wasn't the hardest part of it, I'm afraid. I'm constantly being bombarded with questions regarding said events."

"And I reckon I was left out of the equation?"

"Obviously," he answered quickly. "Would you want to explain to the Prime Minister how you appeared there without being summoned? Or perhaps how the Halloween curse – a topic apparently so forbidden these days – is still very much alive?"

Well, I had to hand it to him this time. "I enjoy my spotless reputation as it is, thank you very much."

"Exactly. As I do." He paused for a moment, and then pulled out a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. Smugly, he said, "I've also managed to get a written consent from the Prime Minister himself allowing me to do some research in his private library."

I rolled my eyes at his obvious excitement. "And pray tell why would you need a written consent for that purpose?"

Nathaniel perked up, eyes gleaming with an enthusiasm I reckon I've seen somewhere else before. "_Because_, Bartimaeus, that book contained the full explanation for the myth! Here, I'm going to read you the entry note I copied from the book."

He cleared his throat dramatically, looking rather ready to deliver a speech about environmental issues other than what he was about to do. I guess some magician traits can't be easily denied or put aside.

"…and the very first magician cursed the very first marid, binding the following generations with their words: 'You will be able to come to our world and be free of any type of obligation; interfere, even, if you so please and the magician is an unfortunate, forgetful soul who tries to bind you to their will. On the other hand, every time you cross some earthling's mind, or be referred to aloud, you'll know; it'll occupy your mind until the day is up. It shall have a similar feeling to that of a tug, but not quite. All shall heal and be purified the following day, but never return to what it was before.' Well, that's about it," he concluded.

I hummed to let him know I had listened. I will not deny it he got me fairly astonished there (1). For starters, Nathaniel rarely emerges anymore, so my surprise is a perfectly acceptable response to his sudden mood swing. But throughout the explanation that followed, there was still a darkness lurking in his eyes that shadowed his eagerness. I watched him with a close eye as he stared intensely at the paper, presumably trying to make some sense out of the words.

(1) No, I am not talking about his findings. Pay a little more attention, will you?

"It's a rather odd curse," he commented with a frown, "and an overly romanticized way of putting it, too. Besides this bit there wasn't really much information. It's a shame the book I'd first read the myth from is destroyed."

Most of the time we don't agree – pretty much on anything, too – but once more I found myself nodding at his remark. "Indeed. The last part is what most stands out to me."

"Yes, it caught my attention as well." He then hastily added, "You mean the very last sentence, I presume."

"What else?" I promptly replied.

We stared at each other in silence for a few moments. I was looking for something that could be considered as different about him, but I found absolutely nothing on all seven planes. And other than the fact that he wasn't acting like John Mandrake (2), Nathaniel still appears to be that prissy, annoying, annoying, obsessed with perfection, annoying, suspicious, and annoying magician. I reckon he was trying to find something unusual about me as well. However, he must have been blinded by my unparalleled superiority, for his eyes shied away soon enough.

(2) Which can easily be explained by the ungodly hour he chose to summon me. Seriously, his clock reads 4:13am. What reasons does a magician have to summon a fine djinni like me at such hour? Nothing good is up his sleeve, I fear.

Nathaniel rubbed at his eyes, letting out a tired sigh in the process. Then, he said – or rather, hissed as if he was being strangled for admitting such thing, "You know, the reason I went to look for this was so that I could confirm if you were alive."

"Ah, so you wanted to know if you could still enslave me? Why, I am deeply moved."

He made a face as if I were missing something very obvious. I am not. I am merely choosing not to acknowledge it. What gives you the idea any of us owes the other an explanation? But for whichever reason, his scrawny figure standing in the other pentacle, with eyes that begged for my help, made me soften mine. In a blander tone, I asked, "If you were so worried why not summon me right away?"

"Did _you _want to be summoned right away?" His voice was the perfect mirror of his face: feeble, with guaranteed lack of strength.

Again, I know very well where he is going with this, so I spared him. "You know I very much enjoy my time in the Other Place. Alone. Doing nothing. Just like a holiday without idiotic, suicidal morons to ruin it."

Nathaniel visibly winced. However, being as used to my charming way with words as he is, Nathaniel quickly recovered. Slapping his hands together while inhaling, the resolve in his eyes told me he was ready to move on to the next topic.

Well, it's obvious we chose to be pragmatic about it. What happened in the past is in the past. Good things can never come out of excessive scrutiny and of making a fuss over details. Perfectionists, beware, for I will not tread your territory whenever I can walk the path of peace of mind.

"Well, now that we have attested that this curse is not completely untrue – given that you disappeared precisely when the first chimes of midnight resounded–"

"And that I heard you calling me over and over again while I was in the Other Place and you weren't even near a pentacle for that purpo–"

"And that you promptly came willingly to my rescue–"

"_Because _you wouldn't stop thinking about–"

"Only because I was a prisoner and ways of get–"

"Oh, just admit it already, Natty Boy. You can't go a single min–"

"_Enough_."

Did you see that? Yes, that was our maturity flying out the window. I'm sure you noticed I was provoked, hence my retorts having matched his tone.

Nathaniel ran his hands up his face, stopping at the temples to massage them as he clenched his eyes shut and nearly knitted his eyebrows together. "If you're done, I need you to do something."

"Me? You started it, mister." I blew him a loud, wet and overall satisfying raspberry.

His stare grew from unimpressed to glaring in the blink of a human eye (3). After pausing for ten long seconds which he used to gather his thoughts, and succeeding in making me extremely bored, Nathaniel said, "I need you to go find something."

(3) Do we really have to do this again? Yes, of course we blink much, much faster than humans.

"Of course you do. Why summon anyone else for that purpose?"

A rhetorical question that is, mind you, but then again Nathaniel seems to be rather slow today, for next he stated, "I already told you I went out of my way to make sure you were okay, what el–"

"Yeah, yeah," I cut him off, waving my hand for him to shut up. "You are so repetitive today."

He ignored my jab, and must have found the floor quite the entrancing sight. "I need you to find my mother's grave."

I stopped altogether (4). It is not every day that you hear a magician wanting to dig up their past. Not even Ptolemy had had unresolved business to munch on; he was all books and research and good deeds. I reckon Nathaniel is not Ptolemy, indeed, but I wonder what my former master would have done if he was trapped within this paradox between past and present.

(4) As in tentacles, limbs, hands, fingers and everything else that I can control in all seven planes simultaneously. I know this is such a brain overload for you, but do try to keep up.

For some reason I couldn't bring myself to snort or scoff at his request. "Any clue as to where that might be?"

"I don't have many memories from when I was a kid, but I do know that the day the Underwoods picked me up the ride from the park to their house wasn't that long. Two hours, maximum. Also, we crossed the Thames. So you should probably start within a two-hundred or two-hundred and fifty square mile radius from their house… or what used to be their house." The last bit was added in a quieter tone, but my formidable hearing would never let it go unnoticed.

"Anything else?" I asked.

This is vexing. I reckon human beings need their sleep, and that mood swings are a sure thing once that is denied, but he was beyond sensitive today. Maybe I could have approached him differently after all that drama on Halloween, but principle and force of habit didn't grant me that.

"Nathaniel?" I insisted when he didn't speak.

"Ah, no. That is all, Bartimaeus." He paused – eyes glistening, hands back at their fidgety dance. "I'll probably be in my chambers when you come back."

He spoke the words. I left.

* * *

I would very much enjoy telling you about the enormous amount of graveyards I visited, but all looked quite similar and the author of this story insists I get on with it (5). As far as charges go, I reckon this one wasn't all that bad.

(5) The Unfortunate Hug is not something that's on my priorities list.

When my raven wings grazed the floor of Nunhead Cemetery just before I landed, I knew that that was the place (6). Once there, I swiftly changed into a fly and took a look around.

(6) And what does it matter that I'd thought the same of the past five?

A few people were passing by, chatting gravely with voices muffled by scarves. The fallen leaves of Autumn exploded with color when crunched under their feet. The statues with wings worn by time and moss watched them in mute understanding; the others wept their loss and offered their prayers to the wandering souls that have long left the human eye's watch.

I was growing disappointed when I noticed a bunch of rocks behind the statue of an angel. I changed into the form of a little girl I had seen passing by while holding hands with her mother. She had her chocolate hair in braids and dark, innocent eyes. Her round face – that was much more suited to a smile than to that blankness of expression – was complemented by rosy cheeks and slightly downward lips of the same shade. I used her hands to move some of the rocks over until I caught sight of that name.

You might be wondering how I knew her name since Nathaniel didn't say it before dismissing me. Well, forgetful soul, who do you think discovered she was dead in the first place? I am pretty sure I've already told you this story (7).

(7) I did not? Well, then it will have to wait for a better time.

All in all, my task here was complete. It concerned me not that his mother's grave had been completely destroyed. So, back to the raven guise, I flew back.

* * *

Nathaniel was trashing about in his sleep when I came in through the window he had left open for me. His limbs were sprawled atop the white bed sheets, constantly frantically jerking up and down in sync with his head. He was sweating profusely, panting, and babbling words I only caught part of. This all points towards a rather bad nightmare. No wonder he looked so terrible before.

I briefly weighted the possibility of slapping him awake, and in my mind the outcome was always a satisfying one. Fetching a bowl of water sprang to mind as well, and it all played nicely in my head. However, because part of me felt guilty for my lack of tact from some hours ago, I decided against these much more appealing tactics.

Offering comfort was never my strong suit, but I have some experience with nightmares, though I might be a bit rusty. In the guise of Ptolemy, I climbed onto his bed. After a mini-wrestling match (8), I managed to get him onto his left side. Not as much reluctantly as it should have been, I held him close and whispered things meant for his ears only. Nathaniel's struggle soon melted into a peaceful slumber.

(8) In which I had to constantly restrain myself from applying the premeditated methods listed above or to resort to a rope.

If you ask me, this place never changes one bit. His room lacks the personality and intimacy of a normal young man of his age. There are no pictures, posters or any other indicatives that might point to his tastes or personal life. The furniture is simple and practical – bed, wardrobe, small bookshelf, mirror, and drawer – again showcasing that this room could belong to almost anyone wealthy enough to buy it.

It wasn't long before Nathaniel started mumbling again, and I realized he was only half-lucid during our brief exchange.

"Mom's graveyard... how'd it go?"

"I didn't find it yet," I lied in a gentle whisper as to not startle him completely awake.

"Hmmm... Why you 'ere then?"

Seriously? "It's really late," I lied again. "Go back to sleep."

Nathaniel yawned, and I really shouldn't have found it adorable. "'Kay. Thanks for looking."

I didn't say anything, stunned as I was. I didn't need to, though. Nathaniel went back to sleep right after that, and as is convenient, he forgot all about our little chat. As amusing as it is to watch his face grow red as he noticed my presence in the bed later that day, my chance of teasing him about the thanks is completely lost to his memory.

However, not all is lost.

When he woke up the sun was a big ball of butter shining brightly at its highest point. He asked me (9) to look for his mother's grave once more, and I went to that very same spot. Carefully, I restored her grave and came back by late noon to him bearing the good news that I had finally, after long time searching, found his mother's resting spot. As far as smiles go, I have to concede that his was kind of nice to see for a change.

(9) And politely, too! Ah, the wonders a good night's sleep do to you humans is a mesmerizing and splendorous thing. Now if only _someone _would let me have my fair share of resting…

He might or might not have cried a bit as he stared at my (unbeknownst to him) handiwork, and I might or might not have held his hand.

* * *

**Ugh. I don't know. I'm not happy with this. **

**Whatever. I'm the one who needs a good night's rest. Move aside, Nat. Your bed is big enough for three.**

**See you next week.**


	4. 13-Farewells&Façades (Remembrance)

**In loving memory of every dearly departed of ours. Warriors are not only those who carry weapons.**

* * *

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To know that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice._

\- _**Fire and Ice, **_**Robert Frost**

* * *

I didn't bother with fanfare when the tug demanded my attention. Dusting into a million swirling particles of gold I materialized before my summoner, feeling every bit a piece of broken jewelry (1). Realization of my surroundings made me piece back together into the form of Ptolemy. The other pentacle was empty as soon as I finished doing so, a metallic noise being the soundtrack and, after being almost tackled to the floor, a pair of slender arms embraced me tightly.

(1) "How would you know?" you might ask. You wouldn't, and that is good enough a reason why _I _would.

"I knew it," my summoner kept saying, trembling in a promising _crescendo_ – a premonition of violent sobs taking over such small frame.

"Kitty," I drawled with uncanny seriousness, "I reckon you didn't summon me to test my body temperature."

She let me go somewhat reluctantly, apparently not taken aback by my lack of tact. Her hands stayed in my forearms as she examined me closely much like a mother would survey her offspring. I must say she was looking better since our last encounter, however drained of life she still might be (2). A glimmer of jade green caught my attention. The Amulet of Samarkand lied almost motionlessly inside the pentacle, still swaying from being hastily dropped. I eyed the object until Kitty followed my gaze.

(2) Different reasons than that of a relaxing stroll to the Other Place sprang to mind, so I conveniently hushed them away.

"I was afraid I hadn't done everything properly… You know this is the second time I–" She interrupted herself, lightly shaking her head as if it didn't matter. With a sigh, she concluded, "I knew it would harm you."

"Flattered."

"Bartimaeus," she admonished softly with a sympathetic smile. I winced, as if burnt, and moved away from her grasp. "He dismissed you at last minute, didn't he?"

"How very perceptive of you," I spat in a scathing tone, pacing. Always straight to the point; isn't she lovable?

By now I felt like crawling up the walls of this very small basement (3) would relieve me from a claustrophobia crisis. I could do just that, mind you, since she so kindly chose to offer me freedom for a change; hence me staying. Mutual respect is doubling its price in the money market these days.

(3) If you must know, apart from the brick and cement walls and slate floor, it included a pair of small, flap open windows, a red oak staircase located behind her pentacle that led to a door of the same material, the ever-glorious set of brooms, a divine washing machine that airs about as rusty as the old hippie days, and, of course, all wrapped up in a handful of spider webs that painted the grace of it all like a cherry atop a dark forest cake.

"Piper and I managed to award him a holiday," she tried again, nonchalantly. "Well, kind of. Now this day is called 'Remembrance Day', and stands for every person that died while serving their country."

I hummed in acknowledgement.

"Bartimaeus," she muttered in a kinder tone, "I know you're hurting. I am too and –"

"Kitty," I warned, halting to lock eyes with her, "please stop assuming you know _anything _I ever felt or am feeling right now." I paused to watch her purse her lips in a thin line and avert her eyes like a kid caught in the act while cheating on a test. "A final act doesn't cover years of enslavement. Nathaniel was no Ptolemy."

Speaking freely, I'm not sure if that last bit wasn't meant for me rather than her. She nodded stiffly, keeping her rigid stance. The temperature had dropped slightly during our brief exchange, and so she showed signs of goosebumps all over exposed arms. I turned it back to normal, silently berating myself for letting my emotions drive me so easily.

"Can I at least tell you what I summoned you here for?" she asked tentatively with hopeful eyes.

Hardly anyone could have said no to such expression, and I was fond of her anyway. I sat down as a sign I was ready to listen. She mimicked my actions and cleared her throat.

"After the Glass Palace... _accident_, everyone was still rather in shock to register what had to be done. Piper was one of the few that snapped out of it and efficiently dealt with most of the crap on her own. I helped some when she begged me to, though I wanted no part in the government. Still don't, thank you very much.

"After cleaning and clearing the space, we found…" She stopped there, breath hitching in her throat and eyes suddenly filling with water ready to pour down her pretty face. I watched intently as she balled her hands into fists and forced her natural urges down with laudable effort. A shaky breath was all she released from her inner walls. I saw her small frame quake with the need for a crying release, but she didn't budge.

"Surprisingly, his body wasn't that damaged," she continued. "Not as much as it should be, anyway. Piper believes that that could only be the work of a relatively powerful Shield or another sort of protective spell cast at the very last second."

At this, I felt her eyes intently looking to mine, searching.

"Impossible," I retorted lightly. "A Shield would significantly reduce the power unleashed by the Staff. Besides, he would never be able to pull that off in his degrading state."

Kitty nearly grimaced, presumably at the images she was still trying to stomach. "We don't think Nathaniel did it. And maybe there's another sort of protective spell rather than a Shield…?"

With what I was hoping to be a nonchalant shrug, I declared, "Don't know anything about it."

She eyed me meaningfully, with what I later recognized to be her way of accusing me of caring for him.

"Don't fuss around trivial matters, Kitty," I advised genuinely. "What happened there should stay there. Nathaniel won't come back; that much I can guarantee."

"I'm aware of that," she retorted promptly, but I easily caught the hint of reluctance that her voice carried. "But it's impossible for his body to have resisted like that. Tell me, had he gone to the Other Place like I did, like Ptolemy did… would it make a difference in you admitting you butted in?"

"Fact is he didn't, Kitty." I sighed, frustrated. This is what you humans do to deal with your own grief. I sincerely don't want any part in it. "I don't see how getting through 'what if' scenarios is going to help you any."

"Bartimaeus, he cared about you."

Again, I winced. Vocalizing whatever opinions you might have to someone who is already privy of your beliefs only adds to the intensity of a reaction. No less and no more than that. Which is also why Nathaniel and I chose silence most of the time – we avoided pointless arguments mostly, among other things.

"And you put up a Shield or whatever sort of defensive spell to protect him, didn't you? For crying out loud, you stupid djinni, I won't think less of you because you reached out to try to save him!"

I turned my attention to one big, furry spider climbing up her own web towards the closest window. "I find it amusing that you insist upon such an insignificant detail. What's it to you, Kitty?"

I noticed her nearly imperceptible shuffling as she got ready to reason with me. I spoke before she could.

"Maybe I did protect him; maybe I didn't. Doesn't make much of a difference now, does it?" I turned Ptolemy's face to meet her dark eyes once more. "He is _gone_."

Ptolemy's shape flickered for less than one second. Don't look at me like that; I already stated I am tired, didn't I? Besides, it's only been two days, I suppose, since Nathaniel and I were one. My essence hasn't properly healed from the extenuation of that battle.

Her restrained gasp didn't escape my acute hearing. However, she didn't let me off the hook.

"He wanted to be the one to get to you."

I scoffed, tempted to let out a bitter laugh. The idea was surreal to say the least. "He didn't even believe in such thing."

"Yes, he did, when I explained. And he'd go looking for you if I hadn't told him I didn't know where or how to get the Staff. Though when I noticed I could have gone through the Pestilence better than him, I–"

"_Wait_." She stopped, as I did. All of this sounded crazier by the second. "You're telling me Mr. Mighty Magician _offered _to go to the Other Place?"

She nodded. I caught a glimpse of guilt dancing in her dark orbs. That her usually incandescent aura didn't shine as bright today I'd noticed already, but I saw it growing fainter the more we dug up the previous events.

So much for hatred, Nat; so much for not giving a damn.

"Unbelievable."

The word reverberated for whatever infinity it took for both of us to lock gazes in a staring contest of rivaling opinions and Kitty to let out a resigned sigh of defeat and what reeked of salty sadness in her dark eyes.

"Fine. Sit there and pretend to not care." She got up in the blink of an eye (4). "His funeral is this evening, and I'd really like for you to be there. However, I won't force you. If you want me to dismiss you, tell me so." She paused to wipe off the dust from her simple black attire. "I just… I just think he'd appreciate you being there.

(4) Literally. I, Bartimaeus of Uruk, N'Grosso the Mighty, tested it myself.

I glared, conveying my disagreement, but something in the way she stared back stopped me from spatting any more hostile words. I admit I've behaved like a pain to someone who proved herself worthy of my respect. Nonetheless, I also reckon she meddled with what is not her business.

"So, how's it gonna be?"

* * *

Weariness has gone up to a whole new level. Had I any bones and they would surely be more than shattered to the point the 'bones don't break in the same place twice' rule wouldn't apply.

This was as gray a day as London often sees. The ceremony went on as boring as it could, rain kissing the nearly grassless ground of the cemetery, perfuming the solemn quietude. Graves graced my eyes any way I glanced, and there seemed to be an infinite amount of them I hadn't noticed since the first time I was here (5). Strangely, I lost count every time I tried. The angel statues were still there, but this time it seemed as though they were weeping for him and looking through me just like Kitty had.

(5) Yes, Nathaniel had specified in his will he would like to be buried right next to his mother, and I obviously never told him that I had restored it.

After the formal ceremony had taken place, there were only three people left (6) – Piper, Kitty, and Mr. Former-Tutor-What's-His-Name-Again. The latter rushed to the casket, nervous hands clenching at his pompous hat. After babbling some words of admiration and wishes of a better next life, he rejoined his former pupil, only to leave right after a very brief exchange.

(6) Kitty had asked – and succeeded – for privacy before Nathaniel was buried. The priest and whatever other clergy and stuff I have no urge to know about stepped aside for a while.

Piper followed, mutely staring and leaving a white chrysanthemum on top of the casket. I took that opportunity to leap from the tree branch I had been sitting on in the form of a squirrel and change into a properly dressed Ptolemy.

"It means sympathy and honor," Kitty informed, walking closer to me. "And these mean friendship and purity." She held up a bouquet of yellow and white roses. She had two other different flowers with her, but I couldn't get a clue on what other species she was holding. Also, I never took her for someone who would know about this kind of stuff. "I had to work as an assistant to a florist a couple of years ago," she justified, presumably noticing I had been wondering.

I watched her lying the bouquet on top of the casket, next to Piper's own offering, and stay there for a while, murmuring things along the lines of "hero complexes" and "bipolarity". With a kiss to his cheek, she turned on her heel and stood before me again, hardly concealing her tears anymore, with the last two flowers I hadn't identified up to this point.

"A white lily," she said, lifting it to my face. "It means that his soul has returned to a peaceful state of innocence." Then she did the same with the other flower, stating in a quieter tone, as if she was delivering a secret, "And a white orchid. No matter the color, when offered to the deceased it always means eternal love."

I stared her down, unimpressed. "What are you trying to imply?"

She was quick to reply, "Nothing. It is common to give flowers at a funeral. You should do so too, out of respect. And be kind, please. No sarcasm or swearing."

"Oh, just like you did, missy?"

I rolled my eyes at her gaping mouth, grabbed the lily and hastened my pace towards the coffin before she could get a word in edgeways, very much aware of Kitty's gaze glued to my back.

I dare say he didn't look as bad as I first imagined. Sure, Nathaniel was very much dead indeed, exactly like expected. But he also looked like he was peacefully asleep, and that did it for me. I carefully placed the lily next to his right shoulder, unaware if I was supposed to or not; honestly not giving a damn too.

And, as I gingerly ran a thumb across his bony jaw for the last time, I drank him in. Every faint wrinkle that marred his perfectly pale skin, every small hair of his sheepishly growing beard that would grow no more, every imperfection that he is-_was_ I memorized. Small lashes didn't flutter open as they would have by now, knowing I was staring and getting impatient for him to wake up. His nose didn't move the slightest bit as it would have while he slept, inhaling and exhaling, lost in a dream I oftentimes found myself wanting in. His parted lips didn't sigh, nor mumble out my name in that incoherent drowsiness that made me chuckle. And his hands didn't reach out to me, didn't do that ritual of begging to be snuggled that I had grown so accustomed to.

The fact that he didn't react in any way wouldn't-_couldn't _surprise me. He is dead after all. _Gone. _And I really should be going too. My essence was feeding on nothing that could rock me there. I found myself hating Earth more and more at each passing second – some kind of accomplishment that is when I reckoned I couldn't hate anything any more.

Being a realist, I couldn't hope for your human ways to get to my mind. No such thing as "I'll meet you on the other side" left my lips. That begs for the questions – would I wait for him, given the possibility?; would he wait for me, given the opportunity?

Not a fat chance.

"_Maybe you do, I cannot say. Is it delusional of me to think so, Bartimaeus? But you always stay when you are free to go, and that fills me with hope. Maybe you shouldn't do that if you don't want me to think so. Unless you like to torture me… actually, that's it, right?"_

"Delusional to your deathbed, Nat. You could never tell, huh?"

I bent down to brush my lips against his forehead, knowing very well what the gesture generally meant. I whispered in a long lost and forgotten language what I knew he had finally figured out on that damned day; what I knew was his reason for dismissing me. The wind took my words away.

There are loads more I could say. Honestly, I could write a very embarrassing book on him; or a series too. Some cuts are bound to be made, though. I cannot have my own pride be tarnished by a mere _dead _mortal.

Wearily, I let go of him. One glance from Kitty and the tug registered in my numb state. We locked eyes – a silent, genuine thanks directed toward her. I had never gotten the chance to properly say goodbye to Ptolemy, but Kitty had given me the opportunity for closure I shouldn't feel the need of. A gust of wind ghosted around my preferred form as I went, and its weeps sounded oddly similar to my name.


	5. 1-Partially&Perfectly (Thanksgiving)

**I've been handing out tissues, so I hope this one makes up for it! (I'm out of Kleenex too, by the way.) My tea is grinning up at me, but really, pay it no mind.**

**I have to say this one was kind of a pain in the ass to write. Why? Because, honestly, tell me one thing Nat can be grateful for, and while you're at it, give me one for Bart too. Also, given that America and the UK are at war (at least) in book 3, would they even have Thanksgiving? And why would Brits celebrate it anyway? Ugh. But I said I would do it, it got voted in my poll too, so here it goes. (It is still open, yes.)**

* * *

_No: anything but having a reason!  
Anything but caring about humanity!  
Anything but succumbing to humanitarian feelings!  
What's the use of a feeling if there's a reason for it outside you?_

_**(Álvaro de Campos)**_

* * *

_Bartimaeus_

I am exasperated. I really am.

"I thought we had a deal," I drawl, not even bothering with smoke, horns and the works. He looks paler than I remember. His body looks slightly older, and bulkier to some extent, however barely, and paler, almost ghostly in shade. His shockingly mane of a hair contrasts with his bony face. I can almost point out the sleepless nights he's had so far by the color of the bags under his eyes. Frame as rigid as a rock he stood there inside the pentacle, not even glancing my way. Dishevelled is another word to describe him. "Oi, if you stand like that you'll become a hunchback in no time."

He doesn't flinch or anything like I expected. Might as well wonder what he called me here for at this point. Broken promises don't taste as bitter as they would have had the kid promised to never call me again thousands of years ago.

I'm already getting that itchy feeling maintaining a form carries. If I would go so far as to humanize my feelings, I'd say every time I leave the Other Place I come to meet a world overflowing with plague.

And this is definitely wasting my time.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I try again, "What day is it?"

Nathaniel looks up, blank expression and all. He seems to be pondering the question. His eyes flicker very faintly in recognition. "Thanksgiving," he mumbles in a husky voice (1).

(1) I thought he was still on diapers, but it seems his voice is beginning to change. Ah, they grow up so fast. Rejoice, mates: the faster they grow, the faster they go.

Well, that's not so bad. I guess it's been almost two years since he last summoned me. Faking admiration, I say, "Well, shouldn't you be celebrating it with your new master? Something along the lines of 'I'm really thankful for being able to enslave spirits' and whatnot."

He flinched, and visibly too. Now that's odd. I almost frowned at his reaction. Well, I had expected him to have become a fully corrupted magician by now (2), so these reactions of his, this _behavior _is the weirdest thing. Distracted magicians often mean lunch. However, no sight close to this one had ever graced my eyes. Nathaniel was not only distracted, he looked almost... traumatized? I guess you could say that by observing him attentively enough.

(2) And vaguely hoped he had saved the very, very small, almost intangible part of him that is decent.

Also, the fact that he didn't make a single mistake when drawing the pentacle and other technical terms I won't bother you with is disappointing (3).

(3) So I checked. What were you expecting?

Since it seems he's going to take a while to spit it out, I'll describe my surroundings to you now – which I had obviously noticed before too. Given that multitasking in humans is positively endangered, I couldn't have made you read two things at once, now could I?

Stark white walls and lynx-gray carpets are the prominent features. The furniture, of glass and silvered metal, and of light wood from the Nordic forests, airs about as contemporary as London can afford these days. Every single book has the same white leather binding, indexed and stamped with identifying numbers in black ink, and thus, as expected, meticulously organized in the tall, elegant shelves. A single rectangular glass table occupies the center of the room. However, the spotlight is easily stolen by a white grand piano, skilfully adorned by gilded inscriptions.

"Okay, kid. I know your birthname and I'm starting to get really peeved here. First, you break our contract, and now you don't even get on with the charge." He stares, only the slightest bit taken aback by my outburst. "Natty Boy," I growl in a low tone, "state your charge so the world can go on peacefully."

He wets his lips nervously (4), and I can see he is struggling with words by the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his fingers keep curling back into his palms.

(4) Almost – the apathy is still there. Makes me want to shake him back to life. Mind you, that would not be possible and we know why, don't we?

"I go by John Mandrake now," he mumbles.

"Hardly matters to me," I retort.

He jerks his head up. "You will address me by that name," he insists, more vehemently this time, but still lacking that fire I'd seen before on him. I raise a brow at that, but say nothing else. Nathaniel clears his throat and returns his eyes to the floor. "I need you to teach me how to play the piano."

I blink, unfazed. Is that it? So much drama for a bloody piano lesson?

"I'm not the best choice for a piano teacher, I'm afraid."

Isn't it obvious that I know how to play the piano? I won't explain again how I've been called to do all sorts of jobs – and I reckon the guise of musician isn't the worst of them. Ptolemy particularly enjoyed listening to me playing the arghul* while he wrote. He kept saying that it soothed him and cleared his head from stress. Also, who do you think Liszt owes his fame to?

However, when it comes to the matter of teaching, or the matter of being able to flee from a task, I'm more than fine with lies and omission.

"The piano has golden inscriptions," I state.

"It's a mere reproduction, as I'm positive you already know."

Now that's more like him. No matter, I already knew that, of course. However, a scoff is what he gets. "Do not mistake me for a human, Natty Boy." He scowls quite a bit. Seemingly, he's getting the hang of it again. "Why the sudden urge to learn the piano, dear master?"

"None of your business, is it?" he huffs.

"And here I was trying to be amiable," I say. "I reckon you wouldn't want me to teach you poorly, now would you?" A childish glare comes my way. "Now don't look at me like that, Nat. First lesson here is trust. It is the foundation of a relationship between master and pupil."

He crosses his arms over his chest in a poutish fashion, muttering, "Respect suffices." After a moment of silence, he shifts his gaze and corrects his previous statement, "The urge to learn is more than enough."

I sway my index finger before his suspicious blue eyes, tut-tutting. "That'll never do. Musicians and magicians are very much different, dearest pupil." Nathaniel frowns, presumably fumbling to argue with me. "Music is taught through trust and respect (5). Care, patience and persistence are some other requirements you lack. Seeing as it is, you are unfit to learn this art. Pity."

(5) Rostropovitch, you say? He's Russian.

"I trust you," he says, as I arch an eyebrow, "to properly and thoroughly teach me."

"You wound me, Nat," I whine, putting a hand to my chest. "What about the old days? I've saved your life with my own without asking for anything in return."

"Ha! The cheek, Bartimaeus. Your life I gave you."

That was nearly enough to make me shudder. The cold tone and the cutting words were there; all the signals I needed to know he is no longer holding onto his innocence.

"It is more the other way around, is it not?" Somehow, I feel weary now. Must be the poison in the air already, overpowering his childish hungry-for-justice demeanor. "I could choose to tell your name to a passing spirit, or to your current master. I'm sure they'd love that."

"You wouldn't–"

"Dare?" I interrupt, drawing a giddy look on Ptolemy's usually soft features. "Just try me."

"For crying out loud, I'm merely asking for a piano lesson here, Bartimaeus!" he exclaimes. A pregnant pause ensues. I see a droplet of sweat leave his forehead, running down towards his chin before merging with the carpet with a muffled sound your human ears would never catch.

"I can recommend a good amount of spirits that are way better for the task. Got your ink ready? Here goes–"

"Bartimaeus," he cuts me off in haste. "I want _you_, not any other."

Again a pause. His words seem to be echoing in the air as we lock eyes, mine smirking at the double meaning, his widening in an embarrassing realization.

"My, oh my, Nat, I never knew of these irrevocable feelings you hold for me. I could say I'm flattered, but we both know better."

Of course I know that that isn't what he means. A magician falling for a despicable djinni? Imagine the horror! Hell would swallow Earth whole before that happened. His stuttering isn't helping his case, however, nor is the shade of cherry painted across his skinny cheeks.

"The idea!" he snaps. "Who would ever fall for the likes of you?"

"I won't bother you with a list, Nat, for there are plenty that'd die for a piece of this." I gesture to myself grandly, observing as his face goes from rage to surprise to a frown.

"Ugh! No matter, just get on with the lesson! I don't have all day, you know?"

"That should be my line, chum. Also, music can't be rushed."

"I'm tired of hearing your incessant rambling about what music is and is not about! Teach me how to _play_. I _obviously _know how to read music_._"

In the middle of his mini-rampage, Nathaniel let his arms flail about. He's irritably gesturing to convey his point when the sleeves of his obviously too-tight-blazer recoil the slightest bit and I notice vibrant red marks to his wrists. Interesting.

"I don't see why it is so difficult for you, then, to put together a piece of your choice. Unless you're going for Rachmaninoff, or Chopin, or Liszt, or–"

"Yes, yes." He shrugs me off with a waving hand. It looked like he was trying to conduct an orchestra during the "Danse Sacrale"of Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_ (6). "How familiar are you with Beethoven's piano sonatas?"

(6) In other words, pointless and amusing.

"I've played quite a few," I say. Well, I've played five, but that's not really the point, is it? I can learn anything at any point given any circumstance, so why waste my time learning sonatas and concertos and whatnot beforehand? Useless, I tell you.

"It should be fine, then." Not a second after he pronounced those words, his face contorts into a grimace. "Sonata n. 14. First movement."

"So original." I rolled my eyes at him. "Do you think that omitting the given name will make it any less cliché?"

"It's not like it's my fault!" he retorts. "I'd rather be playing Mozart or Haydn!"

"Sure you would. They are mostly mechanical and abide by the rules." I draw a mocking smirk with Ptolemy's lips. "Beethoven is bothersome to you because he was an idealistic man who believed in equality and freedom above all else, even in spite of his hearing condition." His fidgety self couldn't have picked a better composer for me to use in my favor. "And _especially _because his music is powerful and meaningful, heh, Nat?"

He glares. It's delicious.

"It's just a bunch of notes bundled up together! Simple math once you get the hang of it."

"Really? Is that why your piano teacher beats you up every time you play _mathematically _and _technically_?"

His mind halts in his tracks – I can practically hear the gears shriek before stopping. Hit the nail on the head. So it is true, then. The kid is actually at the hands of a bully teacher. It's probably one of those lovely old-school ladies in her sixties who start every lesson with a long speech on musicians' conduct.

However, as amusing a story as it sounds, I don't really feel like listening to it. There is something boiling inside my essence that I do not wish to deal with at the moment either. His lack of words comes as a bit of a surprise when I reckoned we had already moved past stage one.

With a sigh, I decide to put an end to it.

"Isn't the best way to get back at her by doing a convincing interpretation of said piece of music?"

"She keeps saying I lack emotion." So it _is _a woman after all. "That my interpretation brings nothing new to this movement. That I don't understand what he's trying to convey. And that I'm not expressing myself well enough."

"Poor thing. Always knew you had psychological issues, Nat, and lack of social capacities, but _this_–"

"Be quiet," he hissed. I can't say I'm not surprised at the tone. Usually, he'd have grown hysterical, telling me how insufferable I am, and throw other ridiculous insults that are appallingly far from being accurate. "Let's just get to it."

After murmuring a series of prudent protective spells, and binding me to do his bidding, Nathaniel steps out of the pentacle and half-limps toward the piano. I follow him in silence, with my arms crossed to convey I did not like the way he treated me just now, when I was actually closely watching his movements. I notice the sheet music is already prepared, with a few handwritten annotations here and there. All technical stuff, as expected – "move the wrist here for better contact with the lowers keys"; "don't hasten the _tempo_"; "pedal from here to here," and a series of numbers over the notes (7).

(7) We, spirits, have no need for those. If there are not enough fingers, we'll just create some more. Simple.

He starts playing, and way too fast for this movement too. But I let him go on.

The keys are old and woody, and I'm sure that if I touch one it will feel like I'm pressing a key to a body of water. This means they are soft keys, ones that will easily trigger the hammers, but Nathaniel probably doesn't realize this as his playing sounds way too harsh. Sure, his performance is technically flawless, and that is his main problem here. Realizing what's ahead of me, I let out a sigh as the final chord resonates throughout the room.

He lifts his foot from the pedal and removes both hands, moving his head to stare up at me with a blank expression that makes me want to slap him across the face.

Beethoven is turning in his tomb. And I don't even care, so long as I finish this ridiculous charge and go back to the Other Place.

I sigh dramatically, counting to ten to mentally prepare myself for the exhaustion this task will prove to cause.

"First, remove that stupid blazer." He looks taken aback; ready to protest even. I silence him with a glare and proceed before he can get a word in edgeways, "Second, are you a robot? Because your impersonation should win an award. Third, this is not a dance, so what's the rush? You're not going for the Olympics here, are you?"

"Is that what is lacking?" he asks meekly.

"No, those are technicalities."

"Then–"

"Do I have to do everything? Figure it out by yourself."

* * *

_Nathaniel_

"_No, no, no, and no!" the voice of a woman shrieked, hammering the keys in a discord as she said so. There's a distinct Polish accent coloring her voice. "How many times do I have to tell you? This movement is darkness, is introspective! _Moonlight_ is drama, is love song!"_

_Miss Topolski is quite physically similar to Jessica Whitwell, without the subtle naturality that graced the latter's appearance that ironically came from the most artificial of things: money. Her frame is sickly skinny; makes you wonder whether she suffered from malnourishment since a very young age. Topolski's piercing blue eyes can hold a stare that'll make you avert yours in seconds. Her gray hair barely reached the middle of her neck, and had noticeably been sloppily chopped off in a huff, leaving little to imagination as to who had done it. With dry, marred skin that pointed towards an age that she hadn't reached yet, and unnerving bony hands, her presence is one of the most imposing Nathaniel had ever seen in his life. _

_This episode took place the day before Nathaniel summoned Bartimaeus._

_He was trying (for the nth time) to play the beginning of the sonata in a way Miss Topolski might approve, sounding as much like a robot as the following day. She was quite expressive in how she let him know that – if the way she slapped his hands away didn't give you the answer, maybe the panoply of curses in Polish does._

_Nathaniel recoiled in the stool with an expression that clearly displayed how this was routine. His teacher grabbed his forearm and pulled him up to meet her menacing glare. Shudder was everything he could do before being pushed down to the floor. He fell butt-first, and would carry a bruise as a reminder for a while._

"_You are the disgrace of all pianists!"_

_The magician gasped for air, having just had the wind knocked out of him, and quickly gathered himself to a half-sitting position. Miss Topolski landed a kick to his left thigh before he managed to move out of her range. Her pointy shoe made his thigh scream in pain, but Nathaniel didn't let out a single whimper as she continued to kick his arms (which he used to protect his head) and legs. He bit on his lip until the taste of blood flooded his mouth. His ears were ringing by the incessant ramblings she shrieked in Polish._

_Yet his eyes, already watery by that time, held no sign of innocence; they were filled with pure rage and hatred._

_Topolski stopped as suddenly as she had started. Panting, sweat dripping off her forehead, she held her steel gaze on her pupil's tensed form. The mad look in her eyes clouded back to the cold, methodical, and demanding shade. With a huff, she announced lunch break was to be shortened by Nathaniel's incompetence, gathered her belongings and stomped out of the room._

"Earth to Lion Mane, do you copy?"

That voice shook him out of his stupor. He had summoned Bartimaeus for help. Right. No wonder this wasn't being productive. But it wasn't so bad. Honestly speaking, Bartimaeus' ramblings and commentaries he oftentimes found simultaneously insulting and humorous were better than having to deal with his piano teacher. Not that _that _was saying much of anything by the way things were, but... this was a nice change. Maybe. If Bartimaeus managed to teach him anything of relevance by the end of the day.

Nathaniel glanced down at Bartimaeus to let him know he was listening, opting to not reprimand him for the insult, and the djinni just smirked in return before getting back to his playing. But seriously, how had it turned out like this?

First of all, Bartimaeus was the one sitting and playing a Beethoven's sonata, yes, but not the one he had been assigned to play. This was sonata number eight he was playing, entitled _Pathetique_. Of course Nathaniel knew that this title had nothing to do with the concept of being called "pathetic," but trust Bartimaeus to make him think otherwise; the djinni had been insinuating, during the whole first movement, he was playing this specific sonata to convey a message. Nathaniel didn't need anyone to tell him how to put two and two together. He was quite proud of his perception skills – whatever Bartimaeus had to say about that was of no relevance to him.

Second, this was definitely a waste of his time, but for some reason he felt quite comfortable with this arrangement. Bartimaeus' talkativeness was snatching negative thoughts away from his brain. And as much as he would rather not admit such thing, Bartimaeus was a superb performer. Why that would still strike him with a wave of surprise was another question he decided to put aside.

And lastly, he really had nothing much to do today. Shocking, isn't it? Even politics halted in favor of Thanksgiving Day. Nathaniel had no family to spend it with, and his master would probably disappear as she had the year before, so he was by himself. So maybe this summoning wasn't all business, but Bartimaeus didn't really need to know that.

"You know, if you keep spacing out like this, you won't learn anything from me," Bartimaeus said, but his head was turned to the keys; his hands never missed a beat as he played the final bars of the first movement. And he didn't wait long to start the second, just as Beethoven had instructed.

Nathaniel nearly gawked at how different the piano sounded now. The tempo dropped to a slow, contemplative, (and God forbid!) almost kind interpretation. The tanned fingers were like butterfly kisses to the keys; the mellow melody melted together with the rich, masterfully written harmony just perfectly.

He found it quite hard to speak and break the spell, but his inner magician saved him. "Teach me," he whispered. Bartimaeus searched his face with a knowing smirk, and again didn't fail a single note. "Please." At that, however, the djinni's expression showed the slightest bit of surprise, albeit very short-lived, as to make Nathaniel wonder if he had been imagining things.

Bartimaeus stopped playing, and it was all he could do to not produce a sound of indignation. Nonetheless, he was given very little time to mope around that, for Bartimaeus swiftly turned around and, grabbing Nathaniel by the bruised wrist, pulled him forward to sit on his lap. The blushing, protesting teen was paid no mind. Bartimaeus proceeded to cage Nathaniel's body with his own so that they were both facing the piano.

"Don't be so tense, Nat, or else it'll really hurt," he drawled directly on Nathaniel's ear. It didn't help matters that the djinni's smirking lips were rubbing ever so slightly against it. Nathaniel cursed the moment he'd thought happy and comforting things about his situation; he had never been so uncomfortable in his entire life! What was with this sudden rush of blood to his face and other parts he really didn't want to think about right now? He seriously hoped his shaky breathing wasn't coming out as bad as he thought. "Now, now, calm down, Natty. It seems like you've run a marathon."

Great.

"I told you to teach me, for crying out loud!" he complained.

"Well, you never said on which methods, so I'm using mine," Bartimaeus retorted with yet another smirk. "Now, if you'd just stop squirming, I could start teaching."

"Fine!" he huffed. "Just don't do anything–"

"Provocative? Unorthodox? Against the rules?" Bartimaeus offered. "Why, I don't know about you, but this looks promising."

His hands snaked up Nathaniel's blazer just to start unbuttoning it when they reached the top.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Taking it off, what does it look like?" When Nathaniel's mouth continuously opened and closed without producing a single sound, Bartimaeus rolled his eyes and said, "I'd told you to do it hours ago."

Nathaniel's suspicion that Bartimaeus was purposely teasing him was confirmed the moment the aforementioned djinni started to slowly remove the blazer, letting it and his own fingers slide down Nathaniel's slender arms. The teen didn't really understand where that fiery sensation bubbling under his skin came from, or the sudden urge to press himself further into Bartimaeus' embrace. He resisted. Working his jaw, and clenching his knuckles until they turned white, Nathaniel lulled his senses and animalistic urges.

"Honestly, your clothes are so tight I fear they will..." Bartimaeus ran his nails down Nathaniel's back, pursing his lips to trap the need to chuckle at his master's reactions. With the other hand he freed one of Nathaniel's arms from the sleeve, and right after both of his hands met, he gave the blazer a sudden pull, finishing his line, "...snap."

With a snicker as response to his mild yelp of surprise, the djinni moved his leg under Nathaniel's to reach the pedal, being mindful as to keep the other's feet over his own. Then, taking both of Nathaniel's palms under his own, he directed them toward the keys and adjusted them over his own so that their fingers were perfectly overlapping.

"And now, dear master, I shall teach you how to play like a living being."

And he did.

Bartimaeus' movements were smooth and fluid. Even though he had made fun of Nathaniel for trying to play it like a waltz, he still felt like his own body was being propelled to dance to an old, slow, and nostalgic song. Nathaniel instantly understood what was wrong with his own playing, and he wondered if he would ever be able to reach this level. Probably not. But it didn't mean he couldn't try. Before a challenge, ambitious Nathaniel always surfaced and tended to rise above it. But this... _this _was different from learning languages, or swimming, or drawing pentacles. It more than unnerved him; it was overwhelming.

He had unconsciously leaned back and relaxed when Bartimaeus did; tensed up when Bartimaeus' false muscles did too. This tempo was slower than his, and now it made sense why. Nathaniel had been playing it like it was technically easy, but he hadn't spared the phrasing the needed time. Or maybe he just lacked maturity.

When, already towards the ending of the first movement, the bass held the melody as the right hand enveloped it and aimed always higher, only to decay toward two soft finishing minor chords, Nathaniel was sure he had been hypnotized. But the spell broke right after that, when Bartimaeus grabbed Nathaniel's waist and dropped him on the floor.

"Hey! What was that for?"

Bartimaeus shrugged. "Lesson's over. Ready to be dismissed for a job well done."

Nathaniel rubbed his sore back as he stood up. "You're not done yet! It's not granted my teacher will approve."

Bartimaeus dismissed Nathaniel's resistance as he moved happily around. "_Please_, as if she could do better than that. You just have to perfectly mimic my stellar performance and it'll be all sorts of fine and dandy."

Nathaniel made a face that didn't need any words to go with it. Bartimaeus threw a good look to the skies above before letting his eyes roll and land on Nathaniel again. An aggravated sigh later, he had swiftly returned to where Nathaniel was standing like an idiot, and removed his master's white shirt from inside those overly tight black trousers. He gave him a nudge towards the piano.

"Tell me a story, you prat," he said. "And it better be a good one."

* * *

So it makes perfect sense that hours later, as the sunset and the autumn leaves melded together, the duo was walking around the poorest neighbourhood of London with two enormous sacks on their shoulders.

"I don't understand why we're doing this."

"Because you suck."

A glare. "Maybe your teaching methods are to blame."

A snort. "You loved that."

Nathaniel blushed hotly, and protested with all his might even when the green scarf muffled his speech. He managed to draw some attention to himself as he did so, but Bartimaeus' smirk was the one thing he could not undo.

"Well, staying inside all day was not working, was it?" Bartimaeus pointed out. "And I want to get this over with to go back to the Other Place. You can thank me later for giving you some sense of humanity back."

Nathaniel halted in indignation, but only for a brief moment. He immediately rushed back to Bartimaeus' side after that with as much dignity as he could afford. After all, they _were _in the poorest neighbourhood of London, and if the dark, narrow alleys weren't already warning enough, there was a feeling of dread that seemed to envelop them as they went. Not to mention that London wasn't particularly bright to begin with.

The bustling of the city seemed like a ghost or an illusion behind them. Nathaniel could hardly believe London had such a dark side to it as well; this seemed like an entirely different city. He glanced around, being mindful as to not let his stare linger longer than it should. The buildings were ancient, worn out by time; the people, a mirror.

Luckily, Bartimaeus had made him change into casual attire, or else they'd be immediately discovered. Not that that stopped people from staring at them. They had just passed by a commoner that had had the gall to stand up from the cold pavement to follow them. Bartimaeus paid him no mind, but Nathaniel continuously stole glances in his direction. His eyes were instantly drawn to the long, black and gray beard, and the clear blue eyes that stood out from that dark, grimy face.

"Here should be fine," Bartimaeus said after a while, when they reached a small square. It had better illumination than the rest of the streets, but it still fell short from Nathaniel's expectations. One of the lamps suddenly turned off, causing Nathaniel to give Bartimaeus a pointed look.

There was a weak bonfire burning in the middle of it, and a small crowd of people sitting around it in torn, dirty clothes. But there was no lively chat going on, or the comfortable silence that sometimes goes with companionship. Even Nathaniel could tell the spirit of Thanksgiving hadn't reached them. Which didn't mean he felt comfortable around those suspicious people.

They dropped the sacks on the pavement, and the curious glances only intensified. Their stalker stood a few feet away from them, watching attentively, not even trying to mask his curiosity. Nathaniel avoided their gazes on him and, turning to Bartimaeus, said, "This is a really bad idea."

"May I remind you, dear master, that you were the one that complained about not having a good story to tell, much less a decent Thanksgiving to account for? Well, here you go." Bartimaeus motioned for the restless circle around the bonfire. "I've found you a family! Am I not such a great, devoted servant? Maybe now you could declare I'm dead so the world will leave me be."

Nathaniel pursed his lips in a thin line as he pondered Bartimaeus' words. "I don't really know what to do."

"Shouldn't be awfully difficult. You start waving those turkey sandwiches before their eyes and you'll see the results. You won't even need neon signs or anything of the sorts! It's a low-budget marketing strategy that'll work nonetheless."

"But where to begin?"

"That fellow over there that's been stalking us for a while now."

"I'll just hand a sandwich to him and that's it?"

"Yes."

"But won't he want more afterwards?"

"It's likely. After all, I cooked."

"And what if–"

"Nathaniel?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

So, with a rather painful nudge to the ribs, Nathaniel was urged forward with a shoved napkin-wrapped sandwich on his hands. He walked – legs shaking, heart thumping loudly – toward the unknown figure standing in front of him. Before his courage failed him, he stopped, rushed out a "For you!" and waited for a reaction.

The man tentatively accepted the proffered food with trembling, marred hands, and eyed it as if God himself had descended from Heaven to offer him a better chance at life. Those empty eyes Nathaniel had been watching were filled with life once the napkin was removed from around the sandwich. He took a big bite, and the bread crunched betweet two sets of flawed teeth. It was soon gone and Nathaniel once more found those eyes piercing him. But this time they gleamed with joy and genuine gratefulness. And that look was something that he knew he wouldn't forget.

Bartimaeus watched him from out the corner of his eyes, as he rummaged around the sack to tend to the line that had suddenly formed in front of him. He was used to doing this. More than two thousand years had passed since the last time Ptolemy had used his influence to feed those in need, so this felt like some sort of homage to his memory. He didn't know what had driven him to suggest it to Nathaniel of all people; there was something that always made him compare him to his former master. And maybe this could save him from becoming an atrocious magician just like so many others. The odds were against him, of course, so Bartimaeus didn't even pay it much mind. He didn't really want to go down that line of thought for starters.

When Nathaniel joined him, he had returned to his cheeky self, and made a comment about how well he blended with this specific crowd that Nathaniel chose to ignore.

They stayed there for a while, handing out food and receiving people's smiles as payment. Nathaniel was actually starting to look like he was in better spirits by the time the food had all been handed out. He had even gotten a hug from a little girl, obviously receiving it like a stiff, frozen ice cube for not being used to such spontaneous contact.

The full moon reflected the sun's light gorgeously, dissipating the clouds around it in an example of sorts for all the starts that were covered that night. Slowly they went back home, Nathaniel not saying much of anything, Bartimaeus chatting as animatedly as ever. When the djinni decided his master was too quiet, he asked, "So, Nat, did you find your humanity in all of this?" Raising a brow at him, smirk at the ready, he added, "Maybe now you can stop being such a mediocre pianist."

"Yes, it actually made me realize a few things," he admitted with an easy smile, not taking his eyes off the sky. "The moon can only shine as long as the sun does too."

"And pray tell, what does that mean?"

"Nothing much. Just that maybe that is what they were going for when they chose the name for Beethoven's sonata."

"Unlikely," Bartimaeus said, somewhat amused by Nathaniel's reasoning. "But at least you don't sound like a robot anymore. Who's to thank for that, huh?"

Nathaniel grinned and, finally facing Bartimaeus, he said, "Indeed. Thank you, Bartimaeus."

It was one of those few times Bartimaeus didn't have to fake surprise.

* * *

***arghul is an Egyptian instrument similar to a nowadays oboe.**

**What can I say? I'm a nerd. Sorry if I bombarded you with too many references. I couldn't help myself. I bet I turned you into a perv in the middle section, by the way. :P**

**I have a serious problem called new-ideas-only-strike-me-on-the-deadline's-day. Beautiful name, isn't it? No wonder I can't properly explore them after and get all frustrated.**

**Happy Thanksgiving!**


	6. 5-Comfort&Compromise (Christmas)

**Thank you for the love this series is getting. I swear to God your support is what keeps me going.**

**This was so rushed, and I'm incredibly sorry. I'll probably come back and redo this one and the 3rd eventually. Till then, bear with me.**

**I guess this is the part where I shout out some warnings, right? Okay, so diabetes and cavities might be a consequence of reading this. If you already suffer from those, beware. Then don't say I didn't warn you.**

* * *

_The way a crow_  
_Shook down on me_  
_The dust of snow_  
_From a hemlock tree_

_Has given my heart_  
_A change of mood_  
_And saved some part_  
_Of a day I had rued._

**_\- Dust of Snow_, Robert Frost, **

* * *

_That night, two strange figures crossed the sky at a speed that rivaled that of a falling star. The winged one held the flailing one always by a limb, not minding which and constantly exchanging. There were screams and snickers, flashes of neon light and the return to the ink-colored anonymity._

_The next morning, that uncanny duo would make the cover of all the newspapers and magazines, but their identities would remain unknown. The Night Police was to take action and tighten security, since the government feared this could be a threat, or worse, a direct challenge given the mocking nature of the event._

_However, after the next twenty-four hours had passed, the mystic power of Christmas enveloped the population in a state of relaxation, and the incident was forgotten by the majority._

* * *

"Achoo!"

I beam in the hallway. The tray I'm carrying shakes a bit at my soundless giggles and, as the water shifts, I can almost foresee his face there, frowning at my choice of tea. Even his pottery looks condescending. However, there is nothing that could ruin this moment, for I, Bartimaeus of Uruk, N'Grosso the Mighty, have avenged the humiliation he's been making me face for years. In spite of that, we're far from being even.

When I reached the door, I strolled inside the living room (1) without bothering to knock. Nathaniel is looking worse for wear, and is sitting exactly on the same spot that I have left him a while ago.

(1) This is news to me, too. You don't really care about this, do you? All right, I hear you. Not. As if I'd give you a description of the room just because it is convenient at this point of the narrative.

My chest swells with pride before my most recent masterpiece.

For starters, you can easily tell he's ill. Nathaniel's eyelids are red and puffy, and may make you wonder if he's been crying. You'd probably hear it in his voice as well. And there's also the fact that he's under a mountain of Christmas-themed blankets, to the point I can only see the top of his head and his glaring eyes.

The lights of his tiny Christmas tree flicker timidly, reflecting on the only window of the room and successfully drawing my attention to the snowstorm raging outside. His head pops up from under the pile of blankets so his eyes catch mine. Still glaring. I grin back to let him know how blissful a day this has been so far.

"Admiring your handiwork?" he scoffs.

"It is looking positively disgusting," I say, widening my grin.

"Right back at you."

"Bless you."

He was about to counter my pun, but his own (and real, this time) sneeze cut him off. He feels around the sofa for a tissue and blows his nose on it with utter gracelessness.

"Aw, don't overdo it, Nat," I coo in false comfort.

I sit down beside him, immediately feeling his feet slightly push against the side of my right thigh. This loincloth is never enough a barrier. Then I put the tray down on the coffee table, facing the dying embers of the fireplace.

"Just give me the bloody tea you've taken ages to do," he bites.

I revive it with a short glance. My hand reaches for the teacup and extends it to him in a routinesque succession of movements.

"Alas, 'please' and 'thank you' are endangered species."

Nathaniel's hands emerge from the Christmas Mountain and take the proffered tea in a huff. "Because you've asked _me _before jumping off that effing roof!"

"It was a surprise!" I exclaim, putting a hand to Ptolemy's naked chest as if wounded by his words. "That was your Christmas present. I do apologize for the lack of wrapping paper, but you took care of that, didn't you? That suit of yours could have easily been mistaken by a gigantic ribbon. Always following the latest trends, huh?"

He ignores me, choosing to sip the peppermint tea I prepared him. Regret shows on his face when he realizes it is too hot. But that might also be the flavour doing its toll. For some reason, this idiot despises peppermint tea, but you should go over his drawers and count how many peppermint chewing gums he owns. One word: ridiculous.

No matter. That's my cue for snickering at him.

"Blimey, Bartimaeus!" he cries, furiously sucking some air into his mouth to cool down his flaming tongue, and glaring at me. "Are you trying to kill me?" I was about to give him the obvious answer when he noticed his mistake. "Never mind."

"I had plenty of opportunities tonight, but for some reason being stuck here for another thousand years doesn't sound appealing," I drawl, re-watching the events of the night on his face just by how it shifts uncontrollably from expression to expression. "_Especially_ as long as you're around."

"You didn't need to be so vehement in proving your point," he mutters in a defensive tone.

"I was just trying to help you understand how Santa manages to do the delivery every year."

"No, you weren't. You were just trying to scare me shitless."

"And it worked perfectly."

His expression would have made that secretary of his cry and rush out of the room, but the only thing it did to me was further aggravate my state of self-satisfaction. With a swift movement, I fling a cinnamon biscuit at his open mouth. He coughs a bit, caught by surprise, and then decides to chew on it like a good boy. His childish glares are always endlessly amusing to me, so I keep my grin to show him so. That was most likely the last straw. Nathaniel hops forward and, placing his right hand at my nape to force me to meet him halfway (2), crushes our lips together with laudable fierceness.

(2) This is true in more than one way.

The blankets drop from his back. The peppermint tea on his left hand spills a bit on top of them and my hand at the sudden motion. The clock on his wall moves to count another minute, and the wood cracks indignantly as the flames eat away at it.

I smirk against his lips when he flinches back a bit, noticing he has overstayed his welcome, and his hold loosens. So I help him out, since he seems to be so miserable it is not even funny anymore. My hand with drying spilled tea-scented uniqueness finds the small of his back and directs him towards me, so that he is pressed against my side. I take his gasp as a chance to properly taste his recoiling biscuit-flavoured lips. His fingers tremble against my nape, making me rejoice on the effect that I have on him. My other hand removes the teacup from harm's away. Nathaniel takes that opportunity to sneak his now free fingers up my side, only to curl at my shoulder when he reaches it, letting his nails run down as he steadies the position and furiously fumbles to keep up with me.

We part soon. He is ill, after all, and a very small percentage of the reason why might be because I actively contributed to such (3). Nathaniel catches his breath. I place my left hand on his forehead, gently brushing some of his hair aside. Either his fever has worsened, or I am that good. It is quite fascinating to feel his muscles tense and relax under my hands and his eyes indecisively shift from mine to anywhere else, but I say nothing regarding that.

(3) All right, maybe more than a very small percentage. I am not planning on being blamed for his weak organism, however.

"It is not with a kiss that you'll infect me, Nat," I finally whisper in a mocking tone.

He faces me straight on, moves his fingers up to tangle each in a strand of my hair, and says, "Maybe a couple more'll do the trick."

But I reckon it is not even a question, neither a statement, for I'm quite confident he knows better than that. My theory is proven correct when he silences the ultimate comeback from _moi_. All lost to the moment, it seems, and he practically collapsed on top of me to boot, as if gravity alone wasn't enough and a magnet of some kind was pulling him (4).

(4) Why, yes, irresistible is the word you are looking for.

I award his efforts with my participation. My hand runs down his hair before settling on his hot cheek. I kiss him slowly, tenderly, with uncanny silence and grazing, soft caresses by calloused fingertips against sensitive skin. Nathaniel lets a sigh escape once in a while. Somewhere along the way, I taste the spices of my mouth on his tongue, and feel the crumbs of the cinnamon biscuits I had baked him on mine.

He would mumble a question from time to time: "Contaminated yet?"

My reply would always be the same short, honest one, and perhaps that's why this argument of ours dragged on for so long.

He sharply breaks our delightful antics to violently cough and sneeze against his own fingers placed on my shoulder. Securing my hold on him, I bend forward to get his Kleenex pack and the teacup from the table and hand them to him. He stares at me with incredulous eyes and furrowed eyebrows. I respond with a roll of my eyes and rhetorically ask him if he thinks I'd like to have his germs all over me. With a blush, he accepts my act of generosity and composes himself. I take that as a cue to adjust the blankets around him.

"You always bite on more than you can chew. For the Other Place's sake, how long have you been holding those coughs down?"

He sips his tea, avoids eye-contact because it is so inconvenient, and says, "Doesn't matter."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Well, at least you're not such a horrid kisser anymore." He nearly splutters out his tea, but holds it down with glaring gracelessness. I grin. "Have you been practicing, Natty-boy?" He doesn't answer, continuing to drink like he's some earl of England. "Oh, is that so? Please don't tell me it's Farrar; she's dreadful, even for you."

"Don't tell me you're jealous."

I have got to hand it to him; he's been learning a thing or two. I scoff, and to better voice my view on such question, I say, "The fever must be getting to you."

"Is that so?" he asks disinterestedly, and then starts wriggling in my grasp. "Well, I have to thank you for this rather pleasant moment, but if you don't mind, I have some reports to look over."

I frown. Honestly, it's no surprise he's using his work as an excuse to escape. I won't deny I would do the same thing, but being on the other end of it puts things in perspective. "Running away, Nat?" I tighten my hold, and swiftly move him to my lap.

"Bartimaeus," he huffs in frustration, seeing as I won't budge. "Will you be so kind as to _remove _your hands and let me work?"

"Well, since you've asked so nicely… no, not really. I feel this is quite the comfortable position."

There the red goes all over his face again. Another thing that's endlessly amusing – how easy to read he is.

"Bloody hell, you are so infuriating!" he spats, then proceeding to violently cough again.

"Easy there, Nat," I deadpan. I tap his back with more force than necessary; at least that's what he seems to be trying to state. "Sorry, I cannot quite make out what you're saying."

By now we have returned to stage one, and he is glaring just like before.

"Don't tell me you'll kiss me again."

"Shut up."

"Do warn me before such things. I have to brace myself, you know?"

"You said it was better."

"But I didn't say I loved it."

"Ha! As if you were capable of loving anything."

I scoff and nod. He really has no idea. "Nathaniel," I wanted to say, just not to feel the sharp irony that usually tags along. Well, they say ignorance is bliss, and honestly, my pride needs a lookover after this.

"Never mind. I need to do this so the Halloween case is finally closed."

"Still hanging on to that?"

"Tell me about it."

He empties the cup and reaches for another cookie, humming in what could be called approval, but I can never be too sure.

"Actually," he meekly starts, and I can already tell this is going to be good, "I have a sort of… if you want to look at it from that angle…"

"Spit it out."

"A present for you."

I blink, unfazed by the red all over his face. It's Christmas, so it's natural Mr. Fashion would want to keep to the classic colours. "Oh? And what could you hope to give me that I'd actually want? Except for your head on a plate, of course. If you could arrange that, you'd be like Santa to me."

He half-frowns, half-pouts; I peck him because it's annoying. "Well, I've decided to let you return to the Other Place for two months, if you so please."

"Two months? Seriously? After all you've put me through, that's the best you got?" But I'm doing my best to conceal my grin, since it all points to this idiot regaining his humanity after my herculean efforts. Can't complain much about that. "And what, pray tell, would guarantee those two months unperturbed by you _or _anyone else?"

"Well, you have my word I won't disturb you. I can't promise anything else," he mumbles.

"Your word means close to nothing to me right now."

He sighs and reaches for some papers on the table. "Here, I wrote a contract."

I raise my left eyebrow at him, but read the document nonetheless (5). When I'm done, my eyebrows are way up on my forehead. Then I furrow them. He's been staring outside the window and fidgeting with the end of one of the blankets – the green one.

(5) In exactly two point forty-five seconds. Just try and top that, human.

"And what if I want to go now?" I ask slowly.

"It's your call," he says in a small voice, "but I'd rather you wouldn't."

"Well," I start in an energetic and joyful tone, "then I am ready to go."

I watch him closely. His mouth is in a thin line, his eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and his eyes are distant. Suddenly, he just starts saying the dismissal order. I'm not going to lie; I am surprised. _And _pissed. He is not supposed to be acting nice, or to be considerate. He's supposed to be a detestable magician so that I can hate him and happily hop at this opportunity of going back home. So I kiss him again. And again. And again. Until he nearly stops breathing.

It has been centuries. Too long, really, since the last time I've been shown this kindness, so excuse me if I'm happy about it.

"You are so lucky you are ill," I say after we part. He looks incredibly out of it with the way his hair is tousled and his eyes are burning mine. Then there's a glimpse of recognition. I smirk. He blushes hotly.

In between stutters, he says, "I have these reports to finish."

I pull him closer. Our noses touch. "Not tonight."

* * *

**I so overdid it this time. And I so don't care. Forgive me, loves; it's Christmas!**

**I was planning on telling you the order of the chapters thus far, but then… how about ****_you _****tell me? I'd love to know your take on the order. Maybe it's not too hard for you since this is only the 6****th**** chapter, but well, I'm curious. Do you accept the challenge?**

**Before I go stuff my face with delicious food:**

**Merry Christmas! Hope you had a great Hanukkah! Happy holidays! Ugh… just be happy already.**


	7. 6-Wonder&Expectations (New Year's)

**Poem (on deviantArt):** **/art/Glass-Cannon-541353293**

**I had way too much fun with this one. Tee-hee. Go ahead and judge me, I dare you.**

**And I had no time to revise it, since I am already running late. If they kill me, don't forget I love you guys!**

* * *

_The inside is the outside__  
to them and they that choose to see  
Masks aplenty in this lane of traffic  
we call civilization_

**_\- Glass Cannon._****, Bleeding Prophecies&amp;MorbidMosaic**

* * *

John Mandrake seldom felt nervous before big events where everything that was asked of him was to politely converse with his peers, dance when asked to, and not eat or drink anything unchecked by his spirit servants.

Nonetheless, as far as social events go, this one was different.

Jane Farrar had snottily informed him she had a date (and done so in the presence of a nearly invisible Bartimaeus to boot) for the upcoming event already, assuming, he guessed, it would upset him greatly and make him ask her sooner next time.

However, and truthfully, Mandrake found his lack of interest on Jane's escort the most upsetting – and maybe a tad alarming – fact of all; hadn't they been engaging on (rather subtle, yes) flirting games now and then? He reckoned he could label it as political interest on both parties, but that aggravated him further. He had supposed they would be attending this Godforsaken party together as they usually did. Jane could be seriously damaging their partnership, especially right under every important magicians' noses.

It goes without saying that Nathaniel was not surprised at the relief that came with the realization that he would not be required to nod and agree with every biting comment Jane made about wardrobe malfunctions or the "atrocious manicures, are gloves that expensive nowadays?"

In spite of the slight pang of humilliation that came with her refusal, he could mostly count pros out of this arrangement. Maybe the need to get himself a plus-one on such short notice giving him little room for manoeuvre was what caused both of his sides to converge and come up with the stupidiest, most suicidal idea he had ever tumbled upon.

Panic had won that day.

Throughout the car ride, the young magician cursed his luck – why, oh why did Piper have to be down with the flu tonight of all nights? And why in God's name did he have to deal with a very moody representation of Kitty Jones at the moment? Maybe the answer to that was on the question itself, and maybe he should stop hurting himself with these pointless questions.

"I hope you remember your task," Mandrake said. The anxiety was nearly choking him, so he wondered how he had managed to speak. He hastily rubbed his sweaty hands on his black trousers; took a deep breath to calm this crazy beating of his heart. But it was no good. There was too much at stake.

The fake girl beside him simply rolled her eyes while repeating his statement in a mocking, high-pitched voice. Mandrake resisted the urge of telling Arthur, his chauffeur, to pull over and kick this irritating presence out of the car. Again he reminded himself that it would do him no good.

John held no unrealistic expectations regarding his – dare he say it? – date's behavior for the night. Hence he making sure not to overstay his welcome and leave the party just after midnight. However, even Bartimaeus would be cautious regarding other spirits, right?

They were headed to a rather private New Year's party held at his former master's, Jessica Whitwell, place. Mandrake was quite grateful to the exclusivity of the event. Besides the guards – which he guessed would be guhls – and a handful of imps here and there, he supposed there wouldn't be any spirit of the same level as Bartimaeus. But he could not be sure, and not knowing was driving him crazy.

Not rightly so, Mandrake let out a sigh of relief when they finally arrived. He threw Bartimaeus a last poignant glare, hoping to convey the message, and, when Arthur knocked twice on his window, he knocked back and got out of the vehicle once the door was opened for him.

Mandrake nervously straightened his sapphire blue tie, buttoned and knocked the wrinkles out of his suit jacket. Lastly, he inhaled deeply a couple times, straightened his back and shoulders and looked above for what he supposed could be in search for inspiration. That at least told him snow would be falling gently for the rest of the evening.

Then he let his eyes move down to look at the house. He had lived there for a little while, and nothing seemed to have changed at all. In fact, the building was quite similar to his own, so he didn't let his eyes linger.

"Sir," his chauffeur called in a soft voice, a puff of steam forming between them.

"Oh, yes. I suppose I'll need you right after midnight. Don't be late. I don't intend to stay for long."

"As you please, sir. However, I was wondering if you wouldn't rather help the lovely lady out yourself than having me do it."

"Oh," Mandrake—maybe Nathaniel due to the light that spread across the young magician's cheeks—articulated. "Of course. Thank you, Arthur."

He extended his hand – immediately regreting having taken it out of his pocket – waiting for Bartimaeus to take the hint and get out of the car. But nothing could have prepared him for that sight. Because it wasn't Kitty Jones coming out, or a horrendous monster he had somewhat been expecting. It wasn't someone he recognized, truthfully, but it was the most beautiful specimen he had ever laid eyes on.

With his breath hitched in his throat and wide-eyed, Nathaniel-Mandrake opened and closed his mouth as his brain failed to cooperate and give him a relatively intelligent thing to say.

"Sir," Arthur whispered on his ear, having had to bend a little to do so, "I apologize in advance for my boldness, but perhaps now is the right time for a gentleman to lend his jacket to his date."

Having been slapped out of their stupor by his chauffeur's words, his fingers moved on their own accord and undid the buttons they had so metodically tended to moments before. The young magician shakily stepped forward while undressing his suit jacket and put it on the shoulders of the stunning woman before him. Full, red lips formed a half smile that made him weak on the knees. He briefly wondered if burying his face on the snow would make it melt.

For a moment there, he had actually forgotten this was Bartimaeus under all that elegance. It must have been those strinking blue eyes that had pulled him in, or the timid, few freckles just under them that gave that face such an exotic air – he didn't know why, since England wasn't a particularly warm country to begin with, but this seemed to be a woman from a faraway winter fairytale. To make matters worse, her ginger hair flamed against her pale skin in such a perfect contrast he was sure someone was bound to write a lovesick sonnet about it someday.

However, Bartimaeus had gone even farther along and decided to dress himself—herself?—in a sapphire gown that wrapped her majestic body perfectly, and complemented it with diamond and what he guessed was intended to be a substitute for silver jewelry, just to keep the suspicious gazes at bay. And boy, he was sure they would get plenty of attention that evening. Nathaniel vaguely noticed the high heels or the small purse, eager as he was to offer his arm to escort her inside.

Had he looked back, he would have seen Arthur smiling to himself, with expressions he wouldn't recognize, but which could be labeled as knowning satisfaction. Because Arthur would be punctually back by midnight as instructed, of course, but even he knew at the time that his master would be the one running_ very_ late.

* * *

Bartimaeus enjoyed teasing him – that much he knew. Therefore, Nathaniel didn't make much of it when the djinni sporadically showed… affection? Was that what he could call the past week's Christmas Eve? He honestly couldn't know; he didn't have anything to compare it to. Using Mrs. Underwood's motherly behavior or Ms. Lutyens' warm nature as examples did not work; it just didn't fit. Yet, for very obvious reasons he failed to acknowledge, there were some aspects that did.

Ugh. Confusing. Why was he engaging in such futile mental debates? Oh, yeah. The bloody party, of course. The champagne was probably catching up to him already. One more reason for Bartimaeus to make fun of him: his alcohol tolerance. Or lack of it, really.

Giving credit where it is due, he had to hand it to Jessica Whitwell. The place looked amazing. He recognized the living room, but the rearrangement of the furniture made all the difference. It was a large, modern room, with stark white walls and lynx-gray carpets. He was glad most of the silvered furniture had been moved out of the way; it was still there, but mostly against the walls. He briefly wondered if Bartimaeus was feeling trapped. There was a fireplace on the other side of the room, opposite the door and right next to the staircase. The paintings – mostly minimalist – he remembered from his time there were still hanging on the walls. The windows were closed, at his right, and although he could not see them, John easily guessed there were guhls there, too.

His stomach growled when his eyes landed on the appetizers table. John reckoned he hadn't eaten anything after that late breakfast – earl grey tea and two undercooked pancakes. He vaguely recalled having told Arthur to pack a sandwich for the ride, but he had completely forgotten about it due to the crazy situation he'd found himself him. Conversely, it meant it must still be there. John was quite tempted to contact Arthur and have him deliver it just not to have to interrupt Bartimaeus with a lame excuse to his dancing partner in order to have the djinni sniff everything before he ate.

John was, thank the Heavens above, able to dance reasonably. He was miles away from having Patrick Swayze's suave movements and charm, but he wouldn't be stepping on anyone's toes. Well, at least not when he was sober. Not that it mattered at the moment. Bartimaeus was waltzing around the room with a magician of a lower rank. The cheek. Call him paranoid, but he could very well see the djinni's eyes locking on him every now and then just to ensure he was watching. Oh, he was. And it made him incredibly thankful for his magician skills that helped him keep everything he was feeling concealed. Repugnance, mostly. Certainly not jealousy. And if it was, very much justified, he'd like to think.

He could spot Jane Farrar right behind Bartimaeus, swaying in the arms of someone of no importance to him. The Prime Minister was lively chatting with Makepeace, occasionally sipping his champagne. The red color over his cheeks and ears told no lies, but he reckoned everyone looked a little red on the face that night.

His stomach growled again, and more vehemently, as if urging him to do something about it. Well, just like mentioned above, alcohol tolerance wasn't something he'd been graced with, and drinking on an empty stomach wasn't helping, so walk across the room he did. Luckily, without making his half-lucid state public – if we choose to ignore his hazy, slightly red eyes, and his not-so-stinking breath – he made it between a few dancing pairs to Bartimaeus and Peter? Pete? Or was it his surname, Peterson? Patterson?

He honestly didn't care.

John, Nathaniel—whichever at that point, and not all thanks to booze—put on his business smile, coughed to get their attention and smoothly said, "If you don't mind, I'd like my date back now, please." Well, it had sounded much better in his mind a second before. Now he was sure Bartimaeus wouldn't let this go for the next month or so, what with the way he—she—whatever!—was smirking at him.

Peter, Peterson—like hell he'd care to remember—smiled back politely, kissed Bartimaeus' hand – much to his horror and the djinni's surprise – and quite literally gave it to him.

"Thank you for the wonderful moment, miss," he said. Then, he flashed the fake girl a smile that made even Nathaniel's knees turn to jelly, nodded once to a gawking Nathaniel, and turned on his heel.

He was brought back to reality by Bartimaeus' hands on his own. "So, now that you have me back, _John_, care to dance?" But he didn't even wait for an answer, and the next thing he knew, he was waltzing to the sound of the string quartet Whitwell had hired for the night.

The djinni grinned, showing a set of perfect, white teeth. Did Bartimaeus not realize how maddeningly appealing this guise was? Of course he did. If he didn't occupy his mind with something else – namely food – he would most certainly lose it completely and become a lovestruck mess. Furthermore, _everyone _was commenting on how average he looked beside this beautiful woman. Did he not understand how hard it was for him to have to maintain his reputation immaculate at times like these? He hadn't come here to exhibit a trophy girlfriend or whatever, he had just desperately needed a date, as not to look like a fool in front of Farrar and the rest of his peers.

"What's on your mind, O my master?"

"I'm hungry," he dumbly said in the middle of making Bartimaeus spin.

"Oh, so you didn't come here to dance with me?" Bartimaeus pouted, and it was ridiculous of Nathaniel to blush, for there was nothing but mocking there.

"You know, the man is the one supposed to lead the dance," he stated, avoiding the question.

"He is leading."

Nathaniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn't believe he had outrightly handed that one to Bartimaeus wihtout noticing. "I need to eat, and I need you to verify everything."

"Killjoy."

But he went along without fussing much. Nathaniel was in the middle of trying some caviar when he remembered Bartimaeus should be eating as well, just for show. With an annoyed expression, the djinni stole Nathaniel's plate and devoured the contents with extreme finesse.

That was cue to the arrival of the Prime Minister and Makepeace, both carrying champagne. Nathaniel stood stiffily as they made small talk, noticing how Makepeace repeatedly eyed Bartimaeus with interest. He couldn't have possibly…?

"Say, Mandrake, how did you find such a lovely lady and managed to hide her for so long?" the Prime Minister asked.

Nathaniel laughed nervously, grabbed a flute from a passerby human – very, very human, thankfully – waitress and downed it in a matter of seconds, squeezing his brain for a story that would sound convincing. He was very much aware of all the pairs of eyes on him, especially Bartimaeus' twinkling ones.

But he saved him, nonetheless. "John and I met in Prague a few years ago for an undercover mission," Bartimaeus said, forcing a Scottish accent. Nathaniel wanted to die right there. Why had Bartimaeus chosen to pretend to be a Scottish woman of all things? Didn't he know about the rivalry between the two nations? Great. He was sure he was dead meat the moment the Prime Minister furrowed his eyebrows.

However, maybe this was his lucky day, for Makepeace's eyes glimmered with excitement. "I trust you are Scottish, yes?"

She smiled. "Yes, I am."

"That's just terrific!" he exclaimed. "Can I have your name, please?"

"Aileen Monroe."

Nathaniel didn't really know what was happening, and it seemed he wasn't alone on this; the Prime Minister seemed to be as confused. That is until…

"I'd love to write a play of you two. Impossible love is everyone's favorite, is it not?" He giddily looked at the three of them. "And you could act your parts, too! Oh, so many ideas rushing through my head already!" He furiously gesticulated while he spoke, and the Prime Minister followed his movements drowsily, nodding every once in a while. "How did you two meet? How did it happen?"

"Well, I'm sure Mandrake was the one who needed saving," a feminine voice said. Jane Farrar appeared from behind the two men, looking stunning on her black, sleeveless dress and with her hair in a high, graceful ponytail, holding a flute of champagne, too. Everyone seemed to be devoted to the damned drink that night.

Nathaniel bit the inside of his cheek. She would obviously be pissed at him for showing up with someone else, especially someone this beautiful. Jane was used to being the center of attention at parties like this, so Nathaniel figured it was more than jealousy that was driving her.

"Well, it was nothing particularly exciting, Makepeace. Surely nothing that deserves to be written about." There. Maybe that would allow him to kill two birds with one stone and get away from this mess without being killed in the process.

"What are you saying?" Bartimaeus questioned, feigning hurt. "It was magical!" Then, turning to the trio standing before them, the djinni continued, "John is always so shy about it. I don't know why."

Nathaniel looked at Bartimaeus, only to see how those blue eyes were alight with a mischievous glint. Yes, he could kiss his reputation goodbye.

"Do enlighten us, please," Jane urged.

"I'm not exaggerating when I say I wouldn't be alive without him."

Wait, what? Maybe he could live this out, after all.

"Because after almost killing us both, he managed to save me from drowning. But you should have seen him before that, all nervous and insecure, _clinging _onto his very competent djinni for help."

Farrar smirked victoriously. Makepeace looked disappointed. The Prime Minister showed no signs of caring. Nathaniel wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.

Bartimaeus went on, telling an absurd tale about how they owed it all to this "witty, brave and impossibly strong djinni," who'd saved them from certain death.

"My, oh my, I need to know who that demon is," Jane said with a lilt of laughter in her voice. "I could use such a fearsome creature working for me."

"Now, now, Jane, you know a good magician doesn't reveal his secrets," Nathaniel retorted nervously.

"You do have to report who you summon."

"Indeed. So I suggest you go look at those files." Before she could reply, he added, "However, that djinni died–"

"While bravely shielding us from that golem's attack, under orders, of course."

Nathaniel looked at Bartimaeus to see a concealed annoyed expression. He didn't think having declared him dead was a bad thing. Wouldn't he rather have that than being summoned?

_Oh._

Jane had called him a demon. That's why.

"But John was most caring, too. He tended to me all night after that incident." When Farrar eyed her with suspicion on her face, Bartimaeus added, "I still have that scar." The phony woman turned her left palm upwards, where was, indeed, a long scar, from the index finger to the wrist. Jane drank the rest of her champagne, and Nathaniel reckoned he had won that one.

"Well, I should go back to my date." And she left, just like that.

Nathaniel let out a sigh of relief. The Prime Minister and Makepeace excused themselves, the latter probably finding the story not that appealing enough for a play anymore.

"How was that, sweetheart?"

Nathaniel's cheeks exploded with color. Boldly, he grabbed Bartimaeus' wrist and walked to the dance floor. He didn't care who was looking anymore, drunk as he was. His head was filled with nothing but this idiotic djinni, guised like a beautiful woman that had saved his butt just now, and it was incredibly scary to think about how Bartimaeus toyed with his every mood. So he didn't think. He just danced until his feet hurt.

* * *

Don't ask him how they had ended up there. In between Bartimaeus having had to take down an imp and confuse its master, the glass of gin he had drunk, and the dancing, he couldn't tell anymore. He was panting and sweating – things you don't normally do at an event like this. Bartimaeus was looking out the window, and once more Nathaniel was blown away by how the moon gave her an ethereal glow.

"It seems they haven't been notified," Bartimaeus said at last.

"Good."

The last thing he needed was a herd of guhls after him right now, especially since he felt he might puke at any given time. He couldn't see anything besides the night sky through the windows and Bartimaeus' outline. The room was small; maybe some sort of office. He didn't turn on the lights, because the last thing he wanted at the moment was to deal with people.

The young magician had been panicking over the possibility of some spirit – as limited as it could be – sensing Bartimaeus. A particularly small and hairy imp had, so he figured they should lay low from then on. This had been the worst idea of the decade—no, of the century.

Nathaniel slid down the wall, falling on his butt with a quiet thud. Bartimaeus kicked off the high heels, leaving them on the floor as he walked towards him.

"It somewhat amazes me why female human beings would want to walk around in those for a whole night. Heck, I don't understand what makes them wear them for five straight minutes to begin with."

Nathaniel didn't say anything; he just laid back and rested his head against the wall, dreading the headache that was sure to come.

"Hey, you okay? You look as pale as a ghost. Should I ship you off to the mortuary?"

"I'm fine," he hissed, rubbing his stomach. Bartimaeus sat down beside him, and then bended forward as if to examine him.

"Are you sure? Isn't that just pride?" He dismissed the question, instead asking for the time. "Ten to midnight. Worried about how many lives you'll ruin next year?"

"Something like that."

Nathaniel watched the snow fall through the window, listened to the hullabaloo coming from downstairs, noticed how there was only his breathing in the room all the more clearly. Everything seemed to conspire to make him relive this past year of his life, when so much had changed. He didn't want to dwell on it, especially with the major reason for these changes by his side like that.

"So, Nat, have you decided which life to ruin first? You have less than one minute left." Bartimaeus' voice lacked the usual energy, and made him briefly wonder if the djinni was tired. With his body feeling so weary and his brain so muddled, he might have been imagining things. However, if there is something alcohol had done to him that night, it was to make him bolder.

"Yes."

From downstairs the countdown ressounded, fireworks mixed with snow made the sky explode with color and lit up the quiet, small room the two were in. But Nathaniel wasn't paying attention anymore. He had pulled Bartimaeus into a kiss just as the last seconds of the previous year were yelled by everyone else in that house.

* * *

**I'm sorry for all the he-she situations here. I really didn't know how to handle it, heh. By the way, since I don't have anything scheduled for January, I'd like to ask you how you feel about more mature content for the next chapter in February. Share your thoughts with me, please.**

**Happy New Year!**


	8. 7-Articles&Antics (Kissing Friday)

**Hello, hello! Confused because it is not V-day yet? Well, I'll let Bart and Nat explain for me.**

**As always, thank you for all the love. Even though FF had a brain fart on the first days of the year, now everything is fixed and I can see your reviews properly!**

**Warning:**** I am rating this chapter M, for obvious reasons. I don't think it's graphic, but if you can't take it, jump the first section and you should remain fine and innocent. You will miss some plot points—I don't just write smut to fill in the gaps and indulge my perverted side— but other than that, you should be able to perfectly understand the chapter.**

* * *

_Sometimes my pencils brush me so,_

_I can no longer recognize gray,_

_But odds are that, come what may,_

_A lesson taught is a rainbow,_

_And learn I never did._

_**\- Rainbow Stationary**_**, C'sMelody**

* * *

_Bartimaeus_

I don't know what's happening.

Well, scratch that. I _do _know what's going on. However, how we got to this point is just a blur of images I can't properly organize in the present moment.

February hadn't been kind to him in any way. Despite the cold weather (1), work had piled up at an alarming speed, and the men sent to America were having a hard time adjusting to the climate there, which meant a greater number of casualities. Maybe he is so tired his judgement got clouded.

(1) Which should have been fine given the clothes he wears. However, his haircut could come out as a bit of an impediment to keeping warm. If his ears haven't frozen and fallen off by now, then his imp has been doing a pretty good job at keeping them there.

But really, that's no excuse.

He mumbles something I can't make out right now (2), and I shush him again, heatedly. His hands snake up to Ptolemy's nape, demanding, and I slam our bodies against the nearest bookshelf. Books fall off, disastrously piling up on the floor around us. I swallow his whispered uncertainties ravenously, midly wishing I hadn't. As my memory fights to recall what action had triggered this response, I hear my name swaying drunkingly from his lips, again and again, until the cause doesn't matter anymore.

(2) I was _preoccupied_, okay? My hearing is perfect, thank you very much.

And God forbid I've called out his own too.

My fingers trace the back of his robes, furiously looking for a way to get past them. Why do British magicians wear so many clothes? Baffles me.

He seems to get my point. Hurriedly, he breaks contact (3), and gets rid of the thing. His icy eyes, now melted, bore into mine expectantly, and I find myself gravitating toward him again.

(3) I totally regret that groan now.

Effortlessly, I rip his white, neatly folded, impressively clean button-up shirt apart, somewhat rejoicing on that fact alone. Plus, note that Nathaniel didn't protest the slightest bit (4), and only moved to smash us closer together. My essence nearly jumped out of this temporary body. I don't know for how long I can keep this up.

(4) Mandrake would have exploded, exposed me to the Systemic Vise, and probably rant for an hour on why we, _demons, _can't do anything right.

I slow down, for the sake of sanity, gently swirling my tongue around his, gently rubbing circles on his bare lower back with Ptolemy's ancient thumbs, gently repeating his name to myself, inscribing it in my essence. He moans shamelessly (5), runs his pale, delicate fingers through my sun-kissed shoulders, going down and up again repeatedly. And shivers threaten to take over me.

(5) Really, every time something like this happens, it seems like he just shuts his alter-ego off. I'm sort of grateful for that, if I'm to be honest here.

There is nothing beautiful about this picture.

What strikes me as odd, though, is how he isn't mumbling the same old sentence that he insists upon every time we get to these antics. "This doesn't mean anything," he always says, in the middle of a moan or a growl, of a _damned kiss_. "Obviously," is my all-time dry reply.

Maybe he doesn't feel the need to reinforce that – he's said that plenty of times, after all. I know that, and he's fully aware that this doesn't mean anything to me either. It's just pleasure. Random circunstances like this never become permanent, or serious – you name it – and our "relationship status," as you humans like to call it, is unchangeable.

I tug at his belt with one hand, using the other to touch his bottom lip. Moving to nuzzle his neck, since he needs oxygen and whatnot, I tease his favorite spot. Goosebumps emerge not long after. He lets out a gasp.

"Are you cold?" I ask with a smirk, moving to his jaw.

"No," he mutters breathlessly, "I'm hot."

A snort is the reply he gets, followed by, "Sure you are." I don't know if he even got the double meaning those words carry, but the next thing I know, he's moaning and biting on my clavicle with his eyes closed shut, leaning his weight against me. I catch a flash of white teeth and saliva, but I don't really mind.

I repress a chuckle when met with his reaction, not ceasing my movements as I comment, "Feels good, huh?"

"Shut up."

I push down my upcoming smirk – it will do me no good. I pepper his face with kisses instead, taking my time on his left lobe. He feels the outline of my abdominals with shaking hands, moves down to try and mimic my actions. Those feathery caresses of his are enough to make something within me snap. He protests when I remove my hand from his growing problem, almost glaring with those lustful pools at me. Mutely scolding him with a look, I drag my master to the bed. The soft mattress easily adapts to our weight, giving a soft sigh as we land.

"Never on top, are you?" I watch his flustered face with a teasing grin, running my left hand through his hair. He ignores my jab this time, which I find odd. His pupils grow slightly wider when he realizes something.

"This doesn't-"

"…mean anything," I finish for him. My grin has been whipped off of my face (6). "Obviously," comes the expected reply. Ah, I was missing this line. I lean down to his mouth, watching his dazed eyes watching me. Nathaniel moves up to capture my lips with his, biting on my lower one as he usually does. He brings my face down to a deeper kiss with both of his hands. Now I can't even tell where his hair ends and mine starts.

(6) I need to look serious so he would get my point.

A trail of kisses goes from his jaw to his lower stomach as he hotly trembles beneath me, hints of his subtle, natural scent filling my nostrils. Pallid, soft skin is all he is—screams temptation at me. A racing heart greets me on my way down; chest heaves in turmoil as I move lower. His ribcage looks more proeminent than I remember. I frown in the middle of butterfly kisses – he has lost weight again. Nathaniel hastily grabs my hand when I reach the end of my journey, cursing under his breath and throwing his head backwards in ecstasy. I squeeze his hand back, entwining young, pale fingers in tanned, historical ones, not even minding how meaningfulthis action actually is. Hips jerk up to prove his point, and I lick and suck his sanity away.

There are times, when I watch these two bodies mold together, that I muse on how much the past and the present can tangle – if it's worth it, if it fits, if it's wrong. I come to no conclusion, but he does – hard and hot and wet. He cries out my name—nails digging into the back of my hand, hips going higher, toes curling back. Time freezes for a moment or two and then, as if on cue, he heaves a sigh and plomps down again, resuming his panting. Nathaniel repeats that it means nothing afterwards (7), and I acknowledge his remark with a peck to his lips.

(7) When he manages to still his breathing, of course.

"Obviously," I comply, removing the remaining garments slowly. Priceless, if you ask me – the look on his face, that is. He can look so dishevelled and inviting at the same time. His eyes follow me as I move him closer. I unintentionally abide by the human rules, for I reckon I have always done it the human way for his sake. For the Other Place's sake, when did I become such a softie?

Nathaniel opens his mouth to speak (8), but rapidly chokes on his words as I leisurely take him. He clenches his eyes shut, clutching my hand tighter, but eases up soon enough – it's not his first time like this, after all. I move our entwined fingers up, to rest beside his red face. Drops of sweat have accumulated on his forehead, so I bend forward to wipe them with soft kisses.

(8) I bet you anything it's a question, what with the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes just have that glimmering urge to _know_.

And, for crying out loud, he chooses that moment to be proactive. Just imagine, if you will, a proactive Nathaniel in bed. Sounds as unreal as flying pigs, doesn't it? He stops me, and moves us so that he is on top. I was about to comment on the accomplishment of beating his complexes, but he wastes no time to bind me down with the look in his eyes.

"Nath–" I catch myself before I can complete his name. Grunting, I sit up and bury my face in his neck, forcing my mouth shut. I must put up the composed act he expects of me.

His nails carve my dark skin, as he pants in my ear. This tingling tastes like frustration and fulfilment simultaneously; burns me with a sense of urgency.

Normally, we have sex. Yet, here we are, tangling together in a hot mess of sins and sensations.

Shortly after this last thought, I'm done – or rather, undone.

There's a foreign shred of intimacy that goes with the way our eyes lock when I remove Ptolemy's face from his shoulder. It's nearly enough to make me wince, and there I know I have jumped off a cliff with him. All that's left is to pray he hasn't noticed this yet. You know why. Been there, done that. It never ends well.

I get up, untangling myself from his warmth, implying that I'm ready to be dismissed again. His eyes never leave mine as he lies down, and somehow that makes it all much more difficult. If he goes and repeats the same sentence again–

"Stay."

Heh? Surely he didn't say that.

I blink. "Come again?"

"Stay," he mumbles, breaking eye contact. "It's an order from your master."

I stare as his face reverts to that rosy shade I always manage to make happen. After what seems like a moment too long (9), I regain my composure and retort, "Then move, you idiot."

(9) For you, humans, I'd say it's been three seconds.

He opens his mouth to probably counter with a sour response, but closes it again and gives me enough room to squeeze in next to him.

Don't take me wrong, his bed is as big as any magician's bed is supposed to be (10), but I took his words as a sign he wanted me by his side, and not on the other end of the mattress. So I pulled the sheets up to his chin, effectively covering both of our naked bodies.

(10) Where do you think their oversized ego rests at night?

It gets worse and worse by the second, if you ask me. This dead silence that fills the room is itchy to say the least. I sigh, exasperated, and swing an arm over his torso. I'm positive he would have flown off the bed if it hadn't been there to pin him down to begin with.

"What are you doing?" he shrieks.

"What do you think, you prick? You're the one who told me to stay," I huff.

"I don't recall having said you were free to do whatever you–"

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up already. Your moans can still be heard somewhere in this room. My eardrums are sore." Well, that's a lie. The way he has purred gently in my ear just a moment before was almost enough to make me–

Never mind.

Nathaniel turned beet red at my last statement. Good, the balance has been restored.

"S-shut up, you—whatever! I'll dismiss you! I'll–"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" I ask flatly, holding him closer to me, almost resentfully.

Seriously, this prat does only one thing perfectly, and that is causing trouble. Nathaniel refrains from making any more comentaries, but this time the silence that fills the room is much more peaceful than awkward.

And now I know that he has suicidal issues. Why invite a djinni – or any other spirit, for that matter – to your bed when you'll be sleeping? You're giving them full access to—well, let me put this bluntly: _kill you. _Which I would do hadn't he already threatened me with the good ol' indefinite confinement spell. Believe you me, he needs to work on his criativity.

"You smell terrible," I comment sardonically against his shoulder. That is a lie, if you couldn't tell, and a terrible one to top it off. He probably doesn't realize how one smells after sex, though, so he would never be able to pick up on that.

"It didn't seem to pester you when you were practically glued to my neck just now," he snaps.

I study his blushing face in amusement. Then, snorting, I resume my antics, and say, "And yet you're the one who's asked me to stay." Nathaniel hops from his lying position and glares pointedly at me. I rest my head on my hand, a teasing grin tugging at my lips. "Yes?" I ask in a low, silky voice.

"It's absurdly cold!" he exclaims defensively, shivering lightly as if to prove his point. Goosebumps have appeared all over his arms and back by now. I reach my hand forward to warm him, but decide against it. When met with my unimpressed stare, he tries again, "That is completely off-topic!"

"Is it?"

"Yes!" I can see a vein popping in his forehead.

"Such a shame, then…"

"God, you're infuriating."

Nathaniel hastily grabs his pillow, holding it as he frantically lies on the mattress again. Once more, I simply observe, midly fascinated.

"You're acting like a teenage girl again," I state after a while. He's too fun to tease, so I can't really help myself. Besides, he practically begged for it the moment he told me to stay. Dark-eyed face turns to meet mine with a sour look. "Really, I can practically–"

That's when he kissed me shut. I could have stopped him easily, shoved him away, or produced another mouth far from his reach and whatnot, but somehow I didn't care enough for that. Reciprocate, that's what I did.

"Now let me sleep," he puffs, turning away the moment his mouth leaves mine.

I smirk, responding, "Sure thing, princess."

He flinches, but chooses silence. I take that as a sign it is perfectly fine to return to our earlier positions. Nathaniel doesn't protest, choosing to snuggle deeper into my embrace instead.

"It's cold," he justifies. I hum in agreement.

* * *

_Nathaniel_

_Earlier that day..._

"I still don't understand the purpose of my presence here today," Bartimaeus said. Nathaniel was almost absolutely sure this was the twenty-third time Bartimaeus had complained since the moment he had stated his charge. "Won't I be in the way of your productiveness? After all, you have openly admitted that I am a distraction."

Nathaniel was beginning to consider labeling this idea of walking from the Whitehall to The London Library as an epic failure, and not because the Thames scent insisted on lingering to his nostrils just like he held on to his handkerchiefs on cold days. Speaking of which, this was one of those days in which the sky was so threateningly grey no one would bother with checking the weather forecast, and he had absolutely no handkerchiefs at the ready.

Reason insisted he completed his thoughts—that it is not the walk, the weather or the river that were bugging him, but a certain redhead who had no trouble keeping up with his quick, decisive pace. The young magician had mixed feelings regarding this situation, but refused to speak his mind, for he was sure _someone _would enjoy learning such thing.

Nathaniel changed the black leather briefcase to his left hand, checked the time on his silver watch – precaution, precaution, precaution – and answered, as casually as he possibly could at the moment, " Your presence is necessary, Bartimaeus, just as I have confirmed for the past twenty-two times you've asked."

One would expect that New Year's resolutions to work – even if just _once _– only to have their resolve crushed. And if there are two things Nathaniel has never learned how to deal with, they are failure and Bartimaeus. And out of the two, Bartimaeus easily took the cake. It looked like instead of taking a step forward – however unwilling he might be to put it that way – they had taken two (or three) back.

So Nathaniel ignored the statue of Charles I and Nelson's Column – the excuses for this arbitrary stroll he had fed to Arthur, his chauffeur – but he wasn't able to push aside the feelings of impotence and insignificance he got when shadowed by History and Bartimaeus. In spite of everything, Nathaniel expected to have the matter solved by the end of the day and, as he had expressed to his chauffeur, to go home by dinnertime. That is, if Bartimaeus collaborated, of course.

He continued, "Ascobol would probably blow the whole place up at the minimal perturb—yes, in spite of the protective charms—and you are just too weak to accomplish that." The predictable scoff didn't deter him from hastening his pace, nor from finishing his speech. "Besides, my other servants are presently engaged with other missions—dangerous ones, too—and I need to be fast and efficient."

"You should have saved Purip or Fritang for lesser jobs as this one. Even in my weakened state—which is absolutely no one's fault but yours—it is outrageous to have me fetch books while you write a stupid article! However, I won't let this insignificant job hurt my reputation. Ha! Just you wait, pal—"

"Right. You should thank me for my clemency, not the other way around. Had I sent you on any of those missions, and we wouldn't even be here discussing whether or not you're fit for this job. Finding books and ensuring my privacy and security is nothing compared to that." Nathaniel paused to face the sour look Bartimaeus was giving him. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's just that you alone cause this," he gestured to Aileen's face, "without even trying. What grand accomplishments at such a prodigious age."

The sharp irony in those words was something that barely bothered Nathaniel anymore. He had learned how to deal with it: sigh, count to ten in your head, and change topics. "You have strange ways to show your disregard for others, Bartimaeus." Well, maybe _not _change topics.

"I don't follow you, _John_."

"A selective memory has served finer purposes, and January has been much warmer than anticipated," he commented, knowing very well that Bartimaeus was catching his drift.

"May I remind you, O my master, that being under orders and threats consequently melts one's principles? Humans certainly are feeble creatures in the hands of Mother Nature."

"It is just as you say."

Bartimaeus remained coldly silent until they reached the library, a habit he had developed throughout the previous month. Once more, Nathaniel was immensely miffed at himself for the "cognitive dissonance," as Arthur called it, he was experiencing because of the djinni's behaviour.

He knew why. It consumed him; commanded his every thought. Incredibly distracting as it was, and alarming (if his heartbeat had a say in the matter) it was also unbearably satisfying and wonderful, especially when Bartimaeus interacted with him in a good way. But that… _that _had essentially stopped since that damned kiss during the countdown to the New Year. Nathaniel had felt something shifting, and Bartimaeus must have felt it too, for his attitude towards him had changed drastically. And Nathaniel had gotten his message from the cold silences and constant avoiding. Well, more or less, because there were times when they would give in to the tension. It confused him to no end, so he had adopted the habit of distancing himself too.

Nathaniel tried to push his inner musings aside the moment he set foot inside the majestic library. The Victorian decoration – granted that slightly modernized by recent upgrades and maintenance – barely caught his attention due to the number of times he had been there already, and because Nathaniel was, after all, a focused young magician. He did feel at peace for having so many books surrounding him. From out the corner of his eyes, he noticed Bartimaeus didn't share of his feelings. That came with no surprise – the commonest thing known about spirits is that they all share the same disdain for books (a rather passionate one too, sometimes).

He thanked his luck when they reached The Reading Room. There sat only a handful of other people—all commoners, it appeared, for the lack of magical activity noticed by him or Bartimaeus (yes, he could tell by the way the djinni's eyes had wandered around the room and showed no signs of threat or the slightest change to his apparently constant sour mood). Nathaniel briefly wondered if this could be considered staring, or if Bartimaeus had caught him in the act ever since he had started this habit of trying to understand the djinni better; and if he did, would he oppose it?

Probably not. Bartimaeus had an ego the size of the damn sun. That only meant he would feel flattered, he supposed.

The young magician sat down, shooing his inner musings away as his business face reappeared. He organized his belongings on the table neatly, and handed Bartimaeus a list of the books he would need without another word. The not-so-solid complexion he had fixated upon himself suffered a bit when their fingers brushed and a tingling feeling was all that resulted from it.

_Focus, _he told himself, working his jaw to maintain his composure and taking in a deep breath to eliminate the uncalled-for, feeble hopes any sort of contact always triggered. _Be casual. This is just another mundane task you have conjured as an excuse to get him to talk. The elephant in the room is as big as the moon, so we'll have to get to it someday. Patience._

However, Nathaniel was not a patient person by nature, however laudable his efforts might be to incorporate his former art tutor's advice. He could honestly say he was trying his best and, for the first time, not for his own volition, but out of affection.

He was done with denial and indecision; the past year had been too insightful for him to ignore the signs that pointed to his obvious infatuation with the djinni. Well, if he was honest with himself, infatuation wasn't really the word for it, but he really didn't want to dwell further on that. It was already mortifying enough inside his head. And he could be okay with acknowledging the truth to himself, but to Bartimaeus? Well, that was a whole different story.

Getting down to business, as Nathaniel was sure Bartimaeus would come back in a flash – not only due to him being an almighty djinni, but also because of the library's reputation of being well-organized – he flipped his notebook open and listed a few topics he wanted to address in that article.

Thus five minutes went by, with Nathaniel having finished the list and staring at the piece of paper in front of him in obstinate resolution not to think about how he hated waiting and not go back to his inner musings regarding Bartimaeus. So he decided to make good use of his time and get some work done while he waited.

It was when, a half hour later, as Nathaniel had been distractedly counting the books of the closest bookcase – arriving at the number 134 – and absolutely neglecting his work, that he embraced his lack of patience and decided to go look for Bartimaeus.

Finding the djinn was easy enough; he had only had to climb a couple steel staircases and ask an employee for the Classic Literature section. Nathaniel followed the directions and dived further into The Bookstacks section.

A gleam of red caught his attention. Nathaniel saw Bartimaeus—still on the guise of Aileen as instructed—with four large books under a slender arm that shouldn't be able to carry them that effortlessly. He walked towards the phony girl, a long, hissed speech about efficiency on the tip of his tongue. However, and just in time, he noticed the djinni wasn't alone.

The man couldn't be much older than him. He was taller, bulkier, with a puffed-out chest and thick, expressive eyebrows over dark—almost black—eyes. His nose looked like it had been recently broken, but worked oddly well with his square jaw and big mouth.

Nathaniel weighted the scenarios that could have led to this encounter: his rational side was telling him it was casual and of harmless nature; nonetheless, irrationality told him it was more than that. Trailing that line of thought, and almost feeling like a conspiracy theorist, his magician, suspicious self conjured a bunch of paranoid settings that always ended up in either Bartimaeus and this guy being in some sort of partnership to take him down, or them having been standing there flirting all this time.

Despite his inner debate, the closer he got, the more apparent it became that Bartimaeus looked peeved about something. A slight turn of the head told him Bartimaeus had noticed his presence.

But Nathaniel couldn't have been prepared for that. Because a second before he had been thinking Bartimaeus was about to swallow the guy whole, or to set him on fire, so why had the djinni closed the gap and kissed the guy instead?

He averted his eyes when the guy pulled Aileen by the waist, feeling dizzy, and tried to muffle the kissing noises with the screaming in his head, to no avail. Nathaniel wanted nothing more than to have the floor collapse and take him down with it, or for the books to all fall down and drown him. That moment of weakness was enough for his counterpart to take over, and so, Mandrake stepped forward, and coughed to get their attention and separate them. The young magician all but ignored the pairs of eyes on him as he reached out a hand in between them and took a book that was located precisely in between their heads from its place. Then he turned on his heel and left without a word or looking back.

Dismissing how stupidly betrayed he felt—because, really, who was he kidding? Betrayed? In what basis?—Mandrake returned to his table, flipped the useless book he had randomly chosen open, and poisoned his sorrow with cold indifference and concealed his rage.

* * *

The ride back home was quiet and tense.

After having caught Bartimaeus in the act, Mandrake had put all his attention on the article he was supposed to write and hand in the next morning. It is no wonder it turned out to be an extremely bitter one, entitled, "Saint Valentine's Day: An Easy Way to Extort Money," given that his mood perfectly matched the tone. To be fair, the whole purpose of this research was to dig deep into the myths behind the day. Mandrake wasn't particularly fond of it to begin with, and yet deep down he knew the article would have turned out a lot differently had he not witnessed that scene. Well, it didn't concern him anymore.

Mandrake went directly to his bedroom, opting to skip dinner and go directly to bed. Bartimaeus, however, interrupted him in the middle of removing his shoes. He noticed the djinni had returned to his preferred form, but didn't comment on it. Ever since the New Year, he had demanded that he kept the Aileen disguise for the public; to look like they were a solid couple going steady. Part of him worried Farrar might have picked on something during the party; she had seemed to be the most lucid that night after all, and he knew she wouldn't just let things go like that. That meant he might have to stage a break up sometime soon. Seriously, that was just another headache he didn't need.

"Skipping your meals again?"

"That is none of your concern," Mandrake retorted harshly. He took a towel from the drawer and used it to dry his dripping hair. Bartimaeus closed the small distance and helped him with it. "I can do it alone!" he bellowed, yanking the towel from the djinni's hands at the same time.

Bartimaeus raised a brow at his reaction. "But, Nat, I thought that you wanted me to become your nanny. After all, I have been doing all sorts of domestic stuff for over a month."

Mandrake fought to regain control over his emotions. He didn't want Bartimaeus to go around touching him so freely when _that _had happened just a few hours ago! How dare he? And Bartimaeus had the gall to smirk on top of it!

"Does this tantrum have anything to do with that kiss you witnessed?"

Mandrake stared at him with a scowl. So now he wanted to talk about it? Fine! They would talk about it. "I will admit I was surprised," he said. "You always go on about how disgusting humans are, but you keep proving otherwise."

"It was just a kiss, Nat. I reckon even you wouldn't read too much into it."

"Oh, it hardly concerns me what you do with your free time—"

"Free time?"

"—but it matters when you are frolicking about while under orders."

"Is that really what bothers you?" Bartimaeus grinned.

"Naturally."

"And you do realize today is Kissing Friday?"

"I don't understand the relevance of that statement."

"It means," Bartimaeus started, still grinning that so-pleased-with-myself grin he abhorred, "that when a boy asks a young lady for a kiss, she must oblige, or else he'll have the right to—"

"I _know_ that much, you exasperating spirit!" he cried. "I just don't understand what is wrong with you! You're always dissing human beings—especially magicians—and then you _kiss _a guy _because _of a damn tradition that is as good as dead? I don't follow you!"

"Ah, so now it's my fault?" Bartimaeus showed his canines, and his grin easily went from mocking to demonic. "So, tell me, dearest master, who promised me a two-month vacation last Christmas and never gave it to me? Who has been constantly using mundane tasks as excuses for me to remain here?"

"What has that got to do with anything?!"

"EVERYTHING!" Bartimaeus roared, his voice coming from the walls, the ceiling—from everywhere. The floor quaked, the lightbulbs shattered, ice rapidly formed and covered the windows and the mirrors. The magician lost his balance and fell back. The Egyptian boy's eyes were gleaming with an unearthly energy. "You keep promising things you don't keep! And you use pointless tasks as imprisonment just to hide the fact you don't plan on keeping them! You are just like every other magician—no, worse! At least they don't fake kindness to then stab me on the back."

Nathaniel looked up, gulped and searched for his voice which seemed to be trapped or hiding behind fear. But it all ended as suddenly as it had started. The quakes halted and the ice melted; the water formed small pools around the room. Nathaniel just knew the water would ruin some of the oldest books he had in his personal bookcase. Gracelessly, the young magician stood up, supporting his weight on his bed.

"You misunderstood everything," he muttered. "And it's not like you've been a saint all the time!"

"Oh, excuse me for trying to get some revenge."

"By _kissing _a random guy in a bloody library?"

"There you go again. That meant absolutely _nothing_."

"Sure looked like it."

Bartimaeus made a thunderous aggravated noise. He grabbed Nathaniel by the collar, lifting him effortlessly. Instead of slapping him, dropping him to the floor, or breaking any of his bones like anticipated, Bartimaeus pecked him. Nathaniel found himself mind blown for the second time that day.

"What the—"

"That was an angry kiss," Bartimaeus stated, still glaring. Then he kissed him again. "This is a good morning kiss." Another followed. "This is a goodnight kiss." And another two. "This is a goodbye kiss. And this is a first kiss." He paused to lock eyes with a very stunned magician. "Find the difference for me, Nat." The young magician simply slowly shook his head. "Oh, there is none?"

"Those are all plastic kisses," he complained.

"Those are all I can afford."

"You are lying."

"So? You lie all the time too."

"Fair enough." He paused. "Bartimaeus, what about the real kisses?"

"Real kisses are for real feelings."

"You could always pretend."

"That I could."

* * *

**I was about to leave a note saying how I wish I could rewrite **_**everything, **_**but then I decided to pretend I didn't. :)**

**Anyway, suggestions and constructive criticism are always appreciated.**

**And... I am thinking about writing a parody integrated in this series (since I feel this has become so serious and dramatic). Thoughts on this please!**

_**C'sMelody**_


	9. 8-Frozen Souls&Shattered Goals (V-Day)

**Greetings, lovely readers. Have I mentioned how gorgeous you all look tonight? (Yes, person on their pyjamas with a bowl of popcorn/ice cream/chocolate on their hands, you included.) If you are not doing anything with your special one this evening, I hope I can at least provide you with a side story for your candy.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

_Sometimes my fingers graze dusty red,_

_But ancient times have spoken, too,_

_And said I'd mistaken it for you._

_So wrap my soul in cotton blankets;_

_It's cold and I already see gold up ahead._

_**\- Rainbow Stationary, **_**C'sMelody**

* * *

_Bartimaeus_

Don't sit there smirking at me. You have something on your teeth, and trust me, it looks far from flattering.

The events of two days ago are better left unscavenged if one wishes to keep their nails clean. So, with that in mind, and given that our history of keeping our word is spotless, we shall proceed.

Presently, the day is coming to an end. The snow is glistening under the last rays of a reddish orange sun, while the stars timidly appear to take its place. The lights outside are randomly flickering aglow as the night arrives and engulfs the city in its dark veil. Commoners and magicians alike are returning home and, for a while, the sounds of chatter and shoes crunching snow are everything I hear. Afterwards, come the familiar scents; food is being prepared by the now open restaurants—the greasy, sweet and spicy smells mix with human sweat, the river's stench and the flowers' perfume from the closing, nearby florist.

There are no signs of Nathaniel anywhere, and boy is that fine by me. The only problem is my master tends to get himself in dire situations whenever I am not around (1) to help it, and then it becomes my problem when he runs back crying. Besides, he had told me he would come home early—around four, if memory serves—since it's a Sunday, and for me to wait for him here.

(1) Well, _especially_ when I am not around. Maybe—just _maybe_—I am to blame for one or two of the past accidents. I am gracious like that; taking responsibility for things that are out of my control.

I look at the clock on the wall; it reads 5:17 pm. Nathaniel is late. Well, no matter. It is not like I am looking forward to having an audience with him. Besides, I am reading his article (tut-tutting all along). Nathaniel left a copy on top of his desk at home, either wanting me to read it or just forgetting I could, since he had overslept this morning (2) and, consequently, rushed out of the house like a mini-tornado.

(2) Yes, this is one of those circumstances concerning taking responsibility I mentioned earlier.

"'I suppose the illusion that this commercial holiday celebrates love is hard to ignore; we must, however, not let ourselves be fooled by tradition and conformism, and rather ask the needed questions regarding Saint Valentine's Day,' huh?"

I snicker at his words. Nathaniel is yet again so easy to read. A few days ago, tradition meant more to him than the terrible hairdo he carries around, but all it takes is seeing how bad it can turn out to have him change opinions. At least he's flexible (3), which is more than I can say for most magicians.

(3) No, you perverts, I don't mean it _that_ way.

"Let's see what else that idiot has up cooked up—oh, this is a good one. 'It is very convenient to forget that the truth behind the legend of Saint Valentine of Rome revolves around the persecution of a multitude of Christians and his role in assisting them. Therefore, this day would better serve its purpose as a commemoration and not as a commercialized celebration whose only goal is to extort money from those with gullible, trusting hearts.' Ouch. That's cold, Nat," I comment with a grin. "Well, this will ruin his popularity with the ladies._ That's_ for sure."

I kept grinning to myself as I read his ramblings. Even if he is kind of missing the point on purpose (4), for how jaded his poor soul must be, I would just love to see the other magician's faces while reading this, _especially _the Prime Minister's.

(4) Because doesn't Valentine's Day symbolize love's victory in spite of the odds? Well, Valentine was executed, indeed, but he managed to marry off a bunch of people. I agree with Nathaniel that it is all puppetry, but I find it hard to believe that he'll escape this unscathed.

Obviously my influence on him is positive—he is distancing himself from his detestable peers. I would pop some champagne, but Nathaniel has, apparently, developed some sort of allergy to the drink since New Year's and hasn't kept a single bottle. I wonder why.

The clock reads 5:22 pm now. I am extremely bored, so I decide it's time to go out and look for that brat. If the unlikely scenario that he's not at work presents itself, then I will know where to find him.

* * *

The raven landed on a naked tree branch as quietly as an assassin, surveying the area below. The snow covered the floor, the trees, the statues and the graves, and the chilly winter wind dragged the very few dry leaves that remained. Ahead, under another tree, stood a small hooded figure in a rigid stance, trembling from time to time.

"Oh dear," said a familiar, silly falsetto voice. "What do we have here? Surely not _the _great Bartimaeus who rubbed shoulders with Solomon."

So much for a quiet evening teasing Nathaniel until he turned red. Well, _redder. _It's cold.

The raven rolled its black eyes before looking up at the disturbance. There, on another branch, stood a considerably small cyclops, in a shapeless, hideous blue-grey smock that would make the Huns blush.

"_And _Faustus and Zarbustibal," I corrected. "Ascobol, to what do I owe the displeasure?"

"Your courtesy is lacking tonight, Bartimaeus. Is that any way to treat your comrades?" Before my intimidating look, the cyclops scratched its belly and answered, "It seems our master would rather have me guard him than you. It is no wonder, I reckon, when you can barely lift a tree."

"Hold your horses, Ascobol," I said. "I am on a special mission. That is why I am here tonight while _you_," I motioned for him with my beak, "my knock-kneed muscled little freak, patrol the streets of London."

"Our master didn't warn us about your possible visit," said a third voice. It was feminine this time, and far less annoying, belonging to a female amber-eyed black cat, currently occupied with sharpening her nails against the tree trunk.

"Mwamba," I greeted. "I wasn't expected so soon in the evening. Nonetheless, my findings are of utmost urgency."

"Poor thing," sighed Ascobol, putting a fat finger on his left nostril and violently scavenging (5) to a point I was convinced he would manage to create a hole leading to the top of his head. Mwamba gave him a very patronizing look, and he stopped. "To think you can barely keep a form and yet are expected to conduct _secret _missions no one but you knows about."

(5) For intelligence, I am afraid. But unsuccessfully. Listen, you don't really want me to describe what he pulled out from there, do you?

"Can it, Ascobol. And while you're at it, try to find a way to make yourself presentable. Every time I see you, I wonder if you are trying to win the trophy for the most hideous disguise."

"You don't look like a doll yourself, Bartimaeus, _especially _under that mediocre disguise."

Foul language as it was, I reckon a human being such as yourself (6) wouldn't find my true form attractive. Alas, very few can attest that I am a fine specimen when compared to my peers, thus I cannot prove it to you. I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.

(6) You _are _a human being, correct? I know no other species who would take the trouble to read books.

Mwamba silenced our verbal abuse diplomatically, while distractedly stretching and purring. Ascobol took that chance to ask for proof I was indeed expected by Nathaniel.

"Would I know where our master was if he didn't want me to find him?"

Mwamba looked satisfied with this answer, and Ascobol just shrugged—something that, in my vision, shouldn't be possible given that his neck is nonexistent. But that was as good an answer as I needed, so I glided down to where Nathaniel was, stopping and resting on the closest branch atop his head (7).

(7) Solely for good purpose, of course. I am a fine raven. Wouldn't try any monkey business while he looks so grim. Besides, compared to other magicians, Nathaniel has a few redeemable qualities, such as... Well, none spring to mind at the moment. I will tell you once I remember.

"Mother's Day is less than a month away, you know?"

"I know." He failed to look up, but I could tell he knew—probably by my enchanting voice—who was speaking. "But it would be too suspicious of me to come here on that day. Magicians aren't supposed to remember their birth names, much less remember their parents', or care about them. So, I figured this was the next best thing."

"Sure. It is not morbid or questionable at all," I said. "No one will wonder what you are doing in a cemetery in the middle of _Valentine's_ _night_."

"Arthur made sure we weren't followed."

"Yet I found you."

"You found me because you knew beforehand where to search," he said, finally looking up with that grim expression that does not become him. "Besides, I have four—now five—djinn with me."

"Yet I made it here," I insisted. "I will concede that not just about anyone can brag about such great guile and ingenuity, but what happened to your paranoia, John?"

With a faint, lopsided grin, he replied, "Bartimaeus, again you _knew _where to search. Furthermore, I gave you specific instructions. What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"Good question," I said. I took a momentary pause to change into my favorite form and jump down to the snow with naked feet.

Nathaniel visibly winced at the sight. "Please, do cover yourself up. You are making _me _colder."

I did as instructed, but mainly because I granted it was suspicious to have an Egyptian, nearly unclothed boy wandering about a cemetery at night. He hummed to approve of my snow boots and overcoat.

"Replying to your question, I was insanely bored, master. I expected you by four, and yet you didn't appear. Thus, look for you I did. Wasn't all that difficult, if you care to know. Your whereabouts were pretty predictable. Might even be your death someday."

He frowned at me. "I appreciate your concern, Bartimaeus, but mind your words. Mwamba and Ascobol might be listening."

I was about to protest—maybe suggest he went to a psychiatrist—when I detected another presence that wasn't as disdainful as Ascobol's, nor as feminine as Mwamba's. It held great power; however, I didn't recognize it. Not a second later, Mwamba and Ascobol jumped from their hiding spots—Ascobol far larger in size and Mwamba, engorged, in the form of a black leopard.

A ball of light sliced the dark, perfectly aimed at Nathaniel, and before it could materialize into an Inferno, the three of us moved at the same time and cast a large Shield. The flames furiously licked at it, and caused considerable damage, but failed to get past it. This cheap trick caused the snow around us to melt (8).

(8) And made me actually happy I'd had the idea of putting snow boots on.

When the vapor cleared, a golden and red bird, with a huge feathered tail tinted of royal purple at the ends, could be seen floating a few feet above the ground. A quick glance revealed its true form—an afrit (9); probably a young one, too, since it didn't tug at my memory.

(9) If those fiery hooves serve a purpose that is not identification, then I am unfamiliar with it.

The phoenix looked directly at Nathaniel, blatantly ignoring us, when it spoke in a deep voice, "John Mandrake, my master demands you attain for your sins."

If Nathaniel was or not about to respond, I know not, for next two figures lunged forward. I saw Hodge's spiked tail make contact with our opponent's stomach, sending it flying against a tree to recover. Outrageous! Had it been me and things would have proceeded differently. (10)

(10) I would have poked its eyes with fingers full of snow first, while kicking his beak for good measure, and _then _I would have kneed him. Hodge's techniques were so inefficient, it pained me. The proof is that the afrit got up right after that. Amateur.

Cormocodran wasted no time to attack. From the tips of its man-boar hands, he blasted a Detonation. Mwamba took the opportunity to use one of her favorite attacks too: a Spasm. However, I knew the outcome before they even hit—both attacks were rebounded. Cormocodran landed on the snow after the explosion, and Mwamba shook for a moment or two before falling down as well.

Now the common author would tell you the brave tale of the spirits who fought for their master without regard for their lives, but I am here to remind those with fallible memory that we are bound to do Nathaniel's bidding _only_. And I, Bartimaeus of Uruk, Rekhyt of Alexandria, do not wish to end up in a jar of jelly (11). Therefore, I grabbed Nathaniel by his torso, changed into a gargoyle and took flight.

(11) This certainly brings back memories from a time when an easily offended master of mine took my constructive criticism (e.g. that he should hide his face with a paper bag not to scar his future fiancée for life during their very first meeting) to heart during breakfast, and decided to imprison me inside a strawberry jelly jar for longer than I would have liked.

The afrit, lacking in intelligence according to the statistics, followed us with its eyes, and ended up taking Ascobol's and Hodge's Hurricane filled with debris from trees and snow. That bought enough time for me to take my leave. As quickly as my current state allowed, I sliced through the air towards the river, where I knew that, even if followed, we would have an advantage.

Nathaniel's face was priceless, if you ask me. I won't take the moment to describe each shade of green he managed to pull, but so you get a general idea, even the Amazon rainforest would have trouble keeping up.

I glanced back to see if the phoenix was following us, and noticed it was being temporarily held down by a Shield caging its body and a nasty looking, vivid green Pestilence bubbling around its wings. No doubt the work of Mwamba, for I reckon that out of the four, she is the only one who would resort to strategy instead of brute force. The screeching sounds that the bird produced were agonizing to say the least. However, I am not inclined to believe those attacks will hold it down for much longer.

"Where are we headed?" Nathaniel asked in a meek voice.

"To the river."

"Don't stop there and proceed towards One Canada Square," he instructed.

I snorted. "Why? Don't tell me you have dinner plans." I glanced down to see his reaction when he didn't say anything. He had an ambiguous expression that didn't outright grant me an answer. Nevertheless, knowing him for as long as I do has its perks. I immediately added, "Oh, you do!"

"Forget it," he retorted. "At Sundays the restaurant is closed, and as far as I know, this year they are not throwing any private party. So that's where we will be hiding."

"See the upside, mate. That restaurant would cost you a year's worth of salary. Now maybe you can afford a makeover, and preferably one that teaches you morality. That would be the whole package, of course. But maybe just the morality part would be a good upgrade. Hey—I know! How about a spiritual retreat? That would do you wonders."

Nathaniel sighed in frustration, and clung to my arm tighter. "Just hurry up."

We were past the Thames now, so I cast a Concealment on both of us and went straight to the building. I noticed one of the highest windows was open (12), so we sneaked in.

(12) Big mistake.

"They say the marble walls are beautiful," he whispered after I had declared the floor was clear.

"They are decent," I commented, vaguely perceiving their texture and greenish-grey color.

Being there gave me a sense of _déjà vu_. Given that all the lights were off, and we could barely see anything but the stars outside, this reminded me of the New Year's office where Aileen had taken off her heels and Nathaniel had gently kissed her, and managed to nearly drown the sound of fireworks and cheers from the remaining humans on the building.

Oh, all right. He wasn't _that _bad of a kisser. I might have enjoyed it. For a brief moment. Because of the alcohol I, too, had been forced to drink for appearances.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Well, since we are here, and have nothing better to do on this depressing day… And because it is Valentine's Day and whatnot…"

Oh, boy. Those words were enough to alarm me.

"Nathaniel," I started. "Do take a moment to think about what you are saying. Remember that not only names have power; words do as much."

Even in the dark, I could see him frowning. "That is not the point, Bartimaeus." He paced. "I am tired of being confused by our antics. We bicker, we kiss. We insult each other creatively, and the next moment we are licking each other's wounds. Besides, we nearly died today and you acted on your own."

"Pray tell, Nat, are you implying I reciprocate?"

"Maybe you do, I cannot say. Is it delusional of me to think so, Bartimaeus?" He halted to try to look at me. I bet he couldn't really see since I was standing with my back to the window. "But you always stay when you are free to go, and that fills me with hope. Maybe you shouldn't do that if you don't want me to think so." I frowned at his words. "Unless you like to torture me… actually, that's it, right?"

Back then I didn't know the impact those words would later have on me, so I tried to take the gentler approach to this problem. "Don't take me wrong, mate. It is always flattering to be told such thing—"

"I haven't even—"

"You don't have to, Nat. Like I said, words have power."

"I love you."

Well, I am pretty sure I had already stated he is incredibly stubborn. However, for good measure, I'll repeat: Nathaniel. Is. A. Stubborn. Idiot. _This _is why I said we had jumped off a cliff, but it seems he has caught up after all, in spite of my herculean efforts. Do I like to hear these words? Heck no! This brat just had to go and make everything even more complicated.

I ran a hand all the way down Ptolemy's face. "Do you even know what you are saying?"

"How would I know, you ask? Well… You are always changing forms, so at first I thought I found the Egyptian boy attractive… but then you continued to change and I realized it was your name, or the idea of you, if you want to put it that way. I couldn't rationalize it, and let me tell you, I tried. _Hard._"

I ignored the insult. "You have really put some thought into this."

"I have," he agreed quickly and vehemently, again looking up at me. "You and I know names have power, as you've stated. I just never expected to actually feel this way. Not even for a human, so of course I couldn't have known at first. I thought it was the folly of youth."

"It may just be the case. You understand nothing of its meaning."

"What do you mean? Didn't I just say that—"

"You think that imprisoning the one you love is showing affection?" I snarled. "And what are you even risking? The most vulnerable you've been in my hands was two days ago, and even _then _I couldn't kill you if I so pleased." I paused to let the words sink in. "You say you love me, but you don't trust me, nor would you put my well-being before yours."

"You don't know that," he muttered.

"I don't? Then, by all means, exemplify!"

"Well, what do you even want me to do? Fight off an afrit?"

"No. Go to the Other Place instead of summoning me. Release me. Remove the protective spells." He gulped. "See, kid? You can't do that much. Besides, what do you even want me to do about it?

He broke the eye contact, and mumbled, "Bartimaeus, I'm saying I love you. I want nothing in return if not your affection. But that's completely delusional of me to expect, as you have already made clear."

"I am happy we have come to an agreement." I paused, feeling the first grains of disappointment starting to settle in. "Maybe now is the right time for those two months you promised me."

He said nothing, and there I knew I was right to have stopped it before it was too late.

* * *

***dodges tomatoes and blushes at insults***

**Please don't kill me! I really wanted to give you a happy ending. Honest! But it just didn't fit no matter how much I tried. Besides, it wouldn't fit with chapter 4 afterwards (you'll see what I mean later). I have two more updates coming up (you can check the dates on my profile page), and I'll ask the same question here since it's only been 2 days: How would you feel if I did a parody for an upcoming chapter?**

**I hope you had a better Valentine's Day than Nat and Bart!**

_C'sMelody_


	10. 9-Convenience&Nicknames (Easter)

**On behalf of the spirit of Easter, I will know bunny-fy my author's note.**

**Bunny-poem (found on deviantArt):**_** art/Travels-503873916**_

**Bunny-warning****: Bunny Bartimaeus is of the opinion us, the bunny lower race, won't be able to understand this chapter as a bunny parody and will take offense on some occasions. Let's prove bunny Bart wrong, shall we? **

**Bunny-disclaimer:**** I own absolutely nothing. Everything you bunny-nize is propriety of their respective bunny owners (who I will refrain from mentioning because… bunny spoilers!) I'll just say I've been very, **_**bury **_**loosely inspired by **_**Alice in Wonderland.**_

**(And remember, this is all in good fun and hardly matters to the plot.)**

* * *

_I went without map  
or compass and I never  
saw this place coming._

_**\- Travels, **_**BleedingProphecies**

* * *

When Nathaniel came to, burning cheeks greeted him, along with the promise of the mother of all headaches. And he hadn't even opened his eyes yet.

Everything was white, and the light hurt his eyes immensely. Nathaniel squinted, trying to make out the blurry forms that were slowly materializing before his lazy eyes. His fingers trembled and ached on his lap; he didn't recall ever feeling this cold — at least when Bartimaeus wasn't around to mess with the temperature. He felt somewhat alienated, on edge, as if someone had spiked his tea.

"Ah, you're finally awake! Took you long enough. I thought that I'd have to actually make you bleed. Pity."

Speaking of the devil.

"Your face now looks livelier, though. You should thank me for the brilliant make up. Blush never came for such a cheap price or satisfying delivery."

He ignored the djinni's ramblings, and focused on where he was. There wasn't much to say, truth be told. Nathaniel couldn't even make out the length or height of the room due to the pure white that engulfed them all. They were sitting in a circle, on invisible chairs, but Nathaniel didn't recognize a single… being. Apart from Bartimaeus, of course, who he should have outright blamed for the headache. And no one seemed interested in him either.

As Nathaniel touched his cheek and winced, he could sense Bartimaeus at his right eyeing him. Probably amused. He focused his attention on the group, hoping some answers would come his way.

"Hello, I'm Katniss, and I never meant for any of this to happen."

He had to wonder what. The girl looked miserable. Was she responsible for his being there?

"Hello, Katniss," the group echoed.

He looked to Bartimaeus for clarity, and found the djinni staring at him already. On the verge of exploding. Literally. His cheeks looked abnormally puffy.

"What?" he whispered.

"Nothing. I just figured it'd be harder to laugh at this if I was looking at you. But I was mistaken. You look like a clown."

"Whose fault is that?"

So there they went again. Bickering like an old, married couple. That could definitely wait. Nathaniel was about to burst into a photophobia crisis if no one provided him with answers.

"_Wait._ Are we in the Other Place? I actually didn't believe such thing would be possible!"

"No, we're not. But I'm not hurting, which is always a great thing, so this is not Earth either. Figure out the rest on your own. Besides, _who_ would have opened the gate for you?"

Nathaniel ignored him. "Or rather… am I dead? But I feel so alive!"

"And what is this 'feeling alive' measured by in your book?"

"I really need to pee."

"Fair enough." He paused. "Hey, looks like Maudlin Arrow is going to tell the story about her sister again."

"Maudlin Arrow?"

"The girl with the bow who's speaking now. At your left, dumbass. With the black braid and bright eyes."

"Oh, I _know _who is speaking. But do you have to find nicknames for everything?"

"You haven't even heard the best ones yet!" Bartimaeus complained. "There's Dizzy Legs and Fat Hulk." He pointed to the girl's left, where were sitting a person with a familiar face, dressed up as a pirate, and a green, fat creature that looked like an ogre. "And Despicable Dad and Doe Lover—"

"Hmm, are you actually not making fun of their noses?"

"Meh. Doe Lover's childhood bullies handled it quite well, I have to say. I also like to call him Grim Reaper."

"You're saying you have run out of ideas?"

"I'm _saying _I found better jokes."

"Sure." Nathaniel conveniently remembered that if he had to address these people, he would better do so by more… flattering names. "Okay, you've had your fun. Tell me their names at once." Bartimaeus was about to retort with something witty, he was sure, but he raised a hand to stop him and added, "And after that, you will shut up. I want to hear what's happening so I can plan a way out of here. And find a godforsaken bathroom."

Still grinning, the djinni said, "Good luck with that."

Nathaniel wanted to protest and insist Bartimaeus answered him properly. However, he noticed the girl had stopped talking and that the only other girl in the room had gotten up. Nathaniel immediately noted her uncommon features: cream hair in a braid and big, round, blue eyes. Braids were in vogue that day or in that place, he reasoned.

"Thank you, Katniss, for sharing that with us… again." She joined her hands as she cleared her throat. "Sometimes you just have to let it go." She paused to let the words resonate with the other girl, who looked at her as if she was insane.

"And _that _is Elsa Enchanted."

"Which reminds me… can I sing you guys a song?" A choir of groans followed. "It's about the rewarding experience of getting rid of all that negativity."

"What did I say about singin'?" Fat Hulk protested. "My talkin' ass is soundtrack enough."

"Really?"

Nathaniel started, unaware of the presence at his left up until that point. He was doubly surprised to find that person sitting beside him was—

"Really, really. And dwarves make me uncomfortable. Not trustworthy people from my experience."

"Indeed. More so if they're actually goblins," drawled Doe Lover. "Although I reckon that this is not the case. You are not a magical creature."

"Why, thank you. I'd be wondering about that my whole life if not for you. I'm sure my father will appreciate it when I clear it up for him that I didn't murder my mother out of _magical _spite." The room fell into an awkward silence, which he used to his advantage to plant a smug smirk on his face. "In case any of you are interested in learning my name, it is Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister. And now I would kill for a bottle of wine, so can we speed things up?" He motioned for the boy sitting next to Elsa Enchanted. "You seem awfully quiet. What binds you here?"

Said boy was floating over the chair casually. "Very nice choice of words. It's a payback prank from Easter Bunny. He didn't like that I'd accidentally made a mistake with his frosting order." The boy smirked, bright eyes twinkled with mischief.

"Do Easter eggs need frosting?" Nathaniel whispered to Bartimaeus, who just shrugged in response.

"So here I am." He sighed, plopping back on his chair in a relaxed position. "And here's the catch: you are _all _entitled to play this ridiculous game of his today."

"What's in it for us?" Dizzy Legs asked, eyeing everyone in a creepy fashion and tentatively smiling. His golden tooth twinkled. "A treasure, perhaps? A map or a key would be nice too."

"It should be the Great Ring!" exclaimed the person at Bartimaeus' right Nathaniel had also failed to notice up until then. "Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor II," he added as a side-note.

Nathaniel frowned. This was the weirdest thing. He couldn't help thinking that someway along the meeting someone was going to produce a bunny and make the rest chase it and force it to pump out chocolate eggs for this supposed Easter Bunny to merchandise. Was he in a weird factory that worked on holidays only? And he'd thought politicians and musicians were the only ones that worked on said days.

"Wait a second, weren't you dead?" asked Despicable Dad. Nathaniel immediately noticed his… Russian? Hungarian? accent. An odd mix between the two, he decided.

"Aye, indeed. So many times I've lost count."

"Ah, sounds like me!" Dizzy Legs squealed.

"There's one thing that's been bothering me," Nathaniel began. "Well, at least one of _many_." Before Bartimaeus' amused arched eyebrow, he cleared his throat. "How come you already have nicknames for them? Isn't this the first time for you as well?"

"No, of course not. I was surprised you showed up, actually."

Nathaniel wanted to know more, but was interrupted by Tyrion. "And you, dark-skinned fellow? Mind telling us your name?"

"Oh boy," Nat groaned.

Bartimaeus smiled with what anyone would label as politeness. Nathaniel wasn't fooled. "Surely." He cleared his throat. "I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni, N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak and Prague." He paused for, Nathaniel assumed, dramatic effect. "I am Rekhyt of Alexandria and Necho of Jerusalem! I have spoken with Solomon, Faustus and Zarbustibal. So be honoured I am standing before you, earthlings."

"My goodness. And I thought Daenerys took the longest time introducing herself. I might have just found someone able to beat her," Tyrion said. "And your partner?"

"John Mandrake," Nathaniel answered.

"Hello, John Mandrake," Tyrion greeted. "And welcome to Anti-heroes Anonymous."

And, suddenly, they were falling at an incredible speed towards an evergreen garden, which Nathaniel was sure would be tainted red if he didn't find a way to stop the fall.

"Goodness! Just a moment ago it felt like we were at a very weird hospital and now _this_? I know where we are. This is Wonderland and I am not amused."

"Find you at the bottom, Nat."

Nathaniel looked at his right and all but had a stroke. "Barti—Come back here, you damned fool!" Bartimaeus waved before changing into a cannon ball and gravity, working its magic, pulled him down to meet the surface with a loud explosion noise. Show-off. "Bartimaeus!"

He knew there was no point in calling him now. If the feeble chance that Bartimaeus had, in fact, heard him came to be, he was positive the djinni would have ignored his protests in a similar fashion.

The grass became clearer and clearer to him by the second, and his eyes drier. Below him, he saw Doe Lover falling to his death like a missile, until he shrank and—

"You've just transformed into a bat!" Nathaniel shouted when the creature floated back up, dark wings open wide.

"Don't tell that to your spirit friend," the bat drawled. "He might come up with another dreadful nickname."

Nathaniel wanted to tell him that the survival ratio for such a fall didn't allow him any hopes, and therefore he didn't need to worry about such thing.

He fell directly into a pile of snow (and the hows and whys of logic didn't concern him because he reasoned protagonists have special perks — he had clearly never met George Martin). And in the middle of a pointless exchange between Fat Hulk and Despicable Dad.

"Ogres are like onions."

"They stink?"

"No."

"They make you cry?"

"No! They have layers!"

"You know, you aren't really doing yourself a favor in comparing ogres to onions. Cakes have layers, as do minions."

"Oh, for Pete's sake—"

He stopped listening to look around. It _looked _like a garden — it was full of pretty flowers and trees — but it was so large that, no matter how far he looked, he just couldn't find the building it belonged to. Englishmen were very fond of their gardens, so this _had _to be England, right? Assuming no other people in the world cared for gardening.

A pink egg shot right next to his left ear, startling him out of his stupor. Nathaniel rolled out of the pile of snow and ran to the nearest tree, with twin eggs on his tail.

Bartimaeus appeared right next to him, giving him a jump, and cast a Shield. "Here, I got one for you." The djinni handed him a pistol, making Nathaniel's eyes nearly fall off their sockets. "It'll help you shoot those damned things."

"Wha—"

"It seems Jack Frost's prank backfired on all of us. Easter Bunny decided to put all those waste eggs to use, and this is the result. Happy egg hunting, he said."

"Wait, how do you know all of this?"

Bartimaeus rolled his eyes. "Do you know how long you took to fall from the sky?"

Nathaniel's eyebrows furrowed together. "_No_." Counting seconds hadn't been a priority. "But I don't suppose it was _that _long. How can you _delay _a fall?"

"Oh, believe you me, you don't want to rationalize this world's logic."

Bartimaeus promptly changed into Maudlin Arrow—_Katniss_, Nathaniel remembered —after that.

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, holding up his hands. "How did you do that?"

"Nathaniel, you might want to sit for this one," Bartimaeus whispered calmly, head leaning forward, about to spill a long kept secret. "I am a djinni, and my superpower is to shift forms whenever I please, to whichever form I prefer, as long as I am privy to the real names."

Nathaniel made a face. "Stop that, will you?"

"By the way, didn't you need to use the bathroom?"

"I don't anymore."

"Convenient. Especially considering just moments ago you thought you were going to die."

"Sure is." Nathaniel just attributed it to this world's weirdness. "Never mind. I want to get out of here. There's a war going in America and I need to—"

"Yes, yes," Bartimaeus interrupted. "Trust me, okay?"

It was a casual plea, so his seriousness was uncalled for, but somewhere in the back of his head it felt right of him to say it clearly. "I do trust you." When Bartimaeus just stared back and made him lose his nerve, he hastily added, "All these people are saying their birth names like it's the safest thing in the world. They are all crazy. You aren't _that _crazy in comparison."

"I wonder, John Mandrake, how you could know who you are if you forgot or refused to embrace the very thing that holds yourself together." Tyrion Lannister batted away some bushes with a sword Nathaniel had only ever seen in books and museums. "You two are an interesting pair. I've heard legends about shape-shifters, but I had never actually met one."

"Don't tell me you were spying on us."

Tyrion remained silent, but had that knowing smile that nearly made Nathaniel lose all colour to his face. "And I noticed you can cast spells, so if you protect me, I will handsomely reward you with more gold than you can spend for the rest of your days. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts."

Bartimaeus smiled. "I highly doubt your family will be around long enough for that."

Because Tyrion had already served his purpose to the plot, he was hit on the cheek by a blue egg, freezing and exploding into a billion shards of ice before their eyes in mere seconds.

"I guess money can't buy everything," Bartimaeus commented with a shrug.

"This can't get any weirder."

Nathaniel shouldn't have defiled the laws of that world. For next _Born to Run_ started to play, resonating from nowhere and everywhere, and nearly turning them all deaf.

A bat landed on top of a branch of the tree they were using for cover. "I trust you are very fond of talking, even when you don't have anything interesting to say and are only avoiding the fact that we are at war with bloody flying eggs."

Bartimaeus caught the bat in his hand in a swift movement, which promptly turned back to the taciturn man with too big of a nose and black, obnoxiously greasy hair from earlier. He pointed a stick to Bartimaeus' throat. "I know you aren't a creature from this world," he drawled. He seemed to do that a lot. "But hexing you might prove to be extremely satisfying."

The djinni smiled before shifting to a rodent and falling to the grass. Nathaniel hit the disoriented man with the pistol on the back of his neck, before sprinting after Bartimaeus to the open area.

"Oi, Sparrow! Quit running like an ostrich and shoot some eggs!"

"There should be a 'captain' in there somewhere," Dizzy Legs — and now Nathaniel understood the reason behind that nickname — retorted, jumping to the side as a particularly large yellow egg tried to tackle him. He felt around his belt. "Why's the rum gone?"

_A better question would be, _Nathaniel thought_, why are we running from flying Easter eggs because some idiot planted a prank on Easter Bunny?_

"Really, what purpose is there to this meeting?"

"To turn us into normal, boring heroes and heroines," answered a passing voice. Jack Frost then sped up and blocked a handful of eggs aimed towards both of them with an ice barrier.

But there's always the one that got away. An egg hit Nathaniel on the face, freezing his brain.

Nathaniel shot up in bed, panting as the remnants of that weird dream dissipated and left him alone in his cold bedroom. He touched his forehead, and the crisp ice melted from the touch.

* * *

**I tried to include only well-known characters, but for those who didn't get the references, here's a list with Bartimaeus' nicknames:**

**\- Katniss (**_**Hunger Games) **_**– Maudlin Arrow**

**\- Snape (**_**Harry Potter**_**) – Doe Lover/Grim Reaper**

**\- Gru (**_**Despicable Me**_**) – Despicable Dad**

**\- Shrek (**_**Shrek**_**) – Fat Hulk**

**\- Jack Sparrow (**_**Pirates of the Caribbean**_**) – Dizzy Legs**

**\- Elsa (**_**Frozen**_**) – Elsa Enchanted **

**\- Jack Forst (**_**The Rise of the Guardians**_**)**

**\- Boromir (**_**The Lord of the Rings**_**)**

**\- Tyrion (**_**A Song of Ice and Fire**_**)**

**And I have tragic news. Bunnies actually don't lay eggs. I know. I am still recovering from the shock. Been lied to all my life.**

**Happy Easter!**


	11. Author's Note

**THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER, BUT READ IT IF YOU'RE CONFUSED. (Damn, I'm writing puns without even trying today.)**

**I had a confused guest last time, and since I can't properly reply to them (and I'm guessing this wasn't the only person who got confused), I'll just use this space to clarify things. This was supposed to be a small A/N in chapter 11, but haha, look at how big this thing turned out. (One freaking Word page. Unbelievable.) And I wanted to do it now before it gets further complicated.**

**1 - If you read the summary, I clearly specified these would be moments, and that some chapters are out of order (see 4 and 5, for instance). My original idea was to have them be unrelated, but since you always wanted to know what followed, I decided to make it into an actual story instead of random, unrelated episodes (which made everything a lot more complicated, let me say). I'll just order them up there and that's it.**

**2 - Nathaniel dismissed Bart after chapter 9, and he wants to keep true to his word (character growth! Hallelujah!). Because of that, Bart wouldn't appear in chapter 10 since it's only been a bit over a month. So, you see, there wouldn't be Bart in here and that just isn't the purpose of this.**

**3 - You can see chapter 10 as a really weird dream Nat had. I wasn't too fond of the idea of having him egg hunting by himself (let's be real: he wouldn't), nor of doing a Wonderland chapter. Everyone does that nowadays. I wanted to try something sort of different. It wasn't great, but I am glad I tried. And it has a purpose, even if it's small. I could go all Freud on you and shit, but I'll just say that Nathaniel dreams that Bartimaeus is working ****_alongside _****him, without being ****_forced_****, and that Nat does put his trust on him (even though it is in a peculiar situation, yes.) I don't know about you, but the human mind has always fascinated me. Draw your own conclusions from this bit of information.**

**4 – The next chapter (23-April) might be the last one. I have honestly run out of British celebrations here. Really, if you have any suggestions/ideas now is the time to share them.**

**Finally, and specifically to Confused: don't worry, you didn't hurt my feelings. Promise. It takes a lot more to hurt me, jeez. (Nope. I am ****_not _****challenging anyone.) I enabled your review to be public because I thought you had a point, not out of spite. And before you wrote another one, apologizing this time, I hadn't even given it much thought in terms of offensiveness, honestly. Besides, if you didn't care, you'd just leave without saying anything, right? You were disappointed, and I get that. And just to be clear, I don't mind criticism at all. I love being praised as much as the next person, but if you tell me what you don't like, I'll take it into consideration and try to see it from your perspective as much as possible. In case you haven't noticed yet, I am a musician. I eat constructive criticism for breakfast and rude people for supper. So, basically: don't worry about it; it's super cool; I love you just the same and I hope everything looks good for you.**

**Happy April Fools' Day, everyone. (Aka I can't believe it's been a whole year since this story was first published!)**

_C'sMelody_


	12. 10-Contrast&Contract (St George's)

**Hello, hello, and thank you for sticking with me this far!**

**Before we start, I have a sort-of-announcement for all parties interested. Dear **TheHopefulSoul **has had the brilliant idea of creating a fandom day (since as far as we know, there's none for this fandom), and suggested it be October 30****th****, for Bart was first summoned in 3010 BC (you get the picture, right?) The details are still foggy, but you bet I'm gonna make a chappie/story out of that. Probably **Soul** and/or I will keep you guys updated through our stories and profiles, but if you have any ideas, suggestions (yada yada, you know the drill), contact us. Let's share the love for this awesome fandom!**

**Phew. Now, without further ado, let's celebrate this double, huh… celebration, shall we?**

* * *

_All night have the roses heard_

_The flute, violin, bassoon;_

_All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd_

_To the dancers dancing in tune;_

_Till a silence fell with the waking bird,_

_And a hush with the setting moon._

**\- _Maud: XXII_****, A. Tennyson**

* * *

Those who say that "When it rains, it pours," were probably referring to the present day. Or maybe not. I guess it depends on whether or not you believe in divination, or whether you're talking literally or figuratively (1).

(1) Yes, there happens to be a difference.

Peeved beyond my wits—great as they are—I sat as a gargoyle on the rooftop of a medieval church, mulling over my charge and this morning's meeting with Nathaniel (2).

(2) It went beautifully, of course. It wasn't awkward at all, too. He had chosen to not address the elephant in the room, so I followed the example.

A flash of lightning startled me. The thunder followed shortly after, roaring as if the Earth was about to split in two. My essence quaked in resonance. To top it off, I was itching just below my left wing and I couldn't exactly scratch there.

All in all, it was one hell of a terrible night for me. All the more when I thought about super comfortable Nathaniel, probably working by the fireplace or curled up in bed with a book. The unfairness of it all made each drop of rain acute and poisonous. I would rather be there, naturally; (3) I am a being of fire, after all. Thus, rain—and water in general—aren't something I'm fond of.

(3) For comfort. Not to be _with _that dimwit. Who'd want to curl up with him in bed on the rainiest day of the year?

Nathaniel kept his word, and had managed to go a bit more than two months without summoning me (4). Which is great because healing was due, but this also means trouble. Believe you me, when they do _that _it's generally because nothing good follows. An impossible task, for instance. So far I couldn't say that's the case. This is not a difficult mission. The downside is I've been sitting here for hours with rain mercilessly pouring on me.

(4) He had showed-off and everything. Nathaniel told me the exact number of days: sixty-eight, if you were wondering.

Idly, the gargoyle watched the ground below, wondering if the commoners were still out and about celebrating St. George's day, the supposed dragon slayer, with such a terrible weather. The fireworks of that afternoon had resounded almost as loudly as the thunderstorm, and the lively chatter, the folk music of colorful dances and vigorous singing, the smell of traditional food had nearly weathered my temper. It gave you the illusion that better times were coming, but truthfully this was just false comfort fed to the people by the magicians, to keep their mouths from asking pointed questions about the war. Make them sing instead.

I spotted a bat flying over the rooftops of old houses. Stretching while I stood, I revised the charge mentally, looking for gaps I could use to my advantage. Needless to say, Mandrake worded it well enough for me to have trouble to find any.

I didn't particularly like Clovis, (5) therefore swallowing him seemed a good place to start. I just needed the information he had for me to act accordingly to Mandrake's orders. However, I knew I couldn't do so. Clovis was supposed to go back, probably to be dismissed, which made me dislike him even more.

(5) His personality was positively unbearable, I tell you. Besides his boastful nature, he often dared speaking high above his station and made sarcastic comments about anything in question. To add to it, his false modesty in front of my master gave me the urge to make a bag out of his false skin and put him in there while I roasted him.

The bat landed by the gargoyle's side. He wagged about like a dog for a while, hopelessly trying to stop the water from sticking to his essence. I was about to comment on the fact that his actions and guise didn't match, or that it was raining buckets, _so stop it you idiot, it won't take you anywhere_, but he decided to be the first to speak. (6)

(6) Another trait to like about him. The challenge with Clovis is to get him to shut up.

"Such a lovely night, heh?"

See?

"Charming indeed." I looked down again, noticing a slowly approaching cloaked figure. (7) The wait under the rain was about to be over for me. "Is that her?"

(7) Not everyone can be a master of disguise like yours truly. The choice of clothing is supposed to say a lot about a person, according to you, therefore it is quite fitting for a suspicious person to wear suspicious clothes.

"Master says you're s'posed to eavesdrop on her s'posed Confession. Also, you're not s'posed to interfere or fight. I don't know how he s'poses you'd fight in that state, but I s'pose he over'stimates you."

That was no news to me. I flashed a smile in his direction, eyes glinting with malice. "I don't _suppose_ master prohibited me of having a snack before I get started." The bat's little black orbs widened. "In fact, I _suppose _it'd be in his best interests to have his djinni well fed."

I advanced on him. Clovis clumsily and frenetically stepped backwards, squealing words of protest and empty threats, throwing feeble Detonations I easily rebounded. Slipping on a roof tile was the last thing he did.

* * *

The walls of the church were slippery, and the rat's paws struggled to maintain a firm grasp. From its perspective, the rain and the thunder sounded louder; harsh on its eardrums. It was dripping wet by the time it reached the pavement. Then the rat became one of those annoying mosquitoes Nathaniel often complains never let him sleep properly, and rested on a wall. It was cool to the touch, but dry, so it sufficed for the time being.

Nathaniel was starting to develop a serious case of paranoia, hence my coming here. Besides having to deal with the Americans' unfathomable calls of independence, Europe wasn't giving him any rest either. The old alliance with Portugal (8) was probably one thing that kept European countries at bay, however, and Spain's indecision due to being trapped in between the two countries and France's and Germany's demands.

(8) Royal weddings have their perks. Ask anybody who drinks tea in England. Oh, you thought the five o'clock tea was a brilliant British idea? Think again.

The British have a generally practical way of looking at religion, so I am surprised to find this particular church populated by people rather than by flies at this ungodly hour. I found the person I was looking for easily. With caution, I examined the seven planes thoroughly. There was an imp on the woman's left shoulder, invisible to the first and second planes, powerful Shields on planes two to seven and a strange bit of strong remnants of magic on the last plane that put me off. It could never be a good sign.

It seems Nathaniel has a reason to worry, after all. I don't know how he had managed to get Clovis to follow her what with all the protective magic around, but I suspect he has hardly spent any time in bed, if any. Well, what he does to his health is his business alone.

I considered my options briefly.

Returning empty-handed and without any bit of information would most likely end badly for me, but I _had _fulfilled part of it: to prove his previsions correct. And since his charge was to merely observe and note suspicious behavior, it would do no good to eavesdrop on a lady's prayers. Then, I had the imp problem. As I am sure I've already stated before, those little insignificant beings have acute senses that are only surpassed by their hideous Earth forms. It would be pointless to dispose of it, either. Its absence would surely be noticed at once and the Shields would still be there. Besides, Nathaniel had specifically instructed me not to interfere.

Painfully, I extended my mosquito guise to the sixth plane. My essence screeched in agony at the exercise. Had it been two months earlier, and I am not sure I would have pulled it off. Fruitlessly, I tried to scratch that blind spot bellow my left wing. I was reminded by this of the inconvenience keeping a form for as long as this presents.

A priest (9) entered from a door at the right. He walked, knelt, walked again to the opposite side and entered another wooden door. The mosquito didn't move an inch. Had it any eyebrows and they would be furrowing. The cloaked woman stood shortly after, and followed him. Hastily, I flew after them, managing to squeeze in through the lock.

(9) What to say about him? He looked like a plain enough forty-something year-old man. Eyes, mouth, nose, hair, limbs, wrinkles—you know the drill. Listen, presently my mood doesn't fit precise descriptions, so just pretend this is a color book and let your artistic side go nuts.

It was a small room, probably some sort of study. There was a window at the right, a desk opposite to the door, full of old books and papers, a pair of chairs, a small disorganized bookshelf that would make Mandrake have a stroke, religious figures and a small square painting on the left wall. I hid myself behind the window's velvet red curtains.

"Do you 'ave it?" she whispered coolly, finally removing the cloak. Once more, I checked the planes, looking for a Glamour, but found nothing other than that unsettling remnant of magic. She had short blond hair, dark blue eyes and small nose and lips. Allied to her thin eyebrows and heart-shaped face, she could be considered beautiful in human standards. (10) Pretty typical features, and yet the way she moved about instantly pointed to a high status, which was obvious enough, granted that she was the one who'd sent the afrit after Nathaniel.

(10) If you are wondering why I am paying attention to her features but not to the priest's, the obvious answer is Mandrake desperately needed a description of _her_. He didn't specify anything in terms of her allies.

"Most certainly." He handed her an envelope. I noticed her long, feminine fingers as she accepted it.

"Did you open it?" The words were drawled this time, oozing with false sweetness.

"No. Those were not the instructions I received. I am merely an intermediate." His voice didn't alter one hertz (11).

(11) I might be exaggerating here. However monotone one's voice might sound, I assure you it never stays exactly the same.

"I surrely 'ope your partner 'ad solid proof to match 'is derranged state of mind. 'E was always ze troublesome one. Not you, no." She smiled ambiguously.

He sighed a staged sigh. "Losing something dear oftentimes makes us see the light."

"From what I've been told, 'e saw verry little."

"We can never see Him through our eyes alone. Therefore, I wouldn't say his sight mattered much. He had his mission, and devoted his attention to it almost as much as he did to yours."

Oh goodie. Religion freaks.

"Yes, but 'e caused unnecessary trouble."

"Ma'am, I hope you can make good use of those papers. Those are the last of them, and I would especially not risk send them by imp."

Wait. Hasn't he just declared he hasn't looked at them?

"Certainly. Your payment weel be in ze usual place at ze usual time."

She turned around and made her leave. I trailed behind a bit after, exiting the same way I had gotten in.

Good thing I did.

My right wing had just left the locker when a huge explosion blew the whole room up. I was sent flying to the other side of the church, crashed into a window. I spun in the air for a while, rain nearly drowning me in this form. Getting my essence together, I swiftly changed into the gargoyle and scanned the area. There was a fairly decent imitation of a black dragon towering over the demolished side of the church (12), again a familiar presence I recognized. It cough up a silver cross which probably had once been the priest's (13), letting the flames engulf and melt it. I gulped. She had certainly caught on his lie as quickly as I.

(12) Fashionable. It's like _someone _is trying to spit on England itself by having a dragon parading about on St. George's day.

(13) See? His features turned out to be irrelevant. Now put the pencils down.

The commoners that had been inside the church rushed outside screaming, sobbing, violently flailing their arms about and ducking nonexistent attacks. But the dragon didn't care one bit about them—its golden orbs were on me.

Now, there are two things one must consider when a creature of superior power and inferior intelligence eyes one in a famished manner. First, if there is any chance of parley, and second, if the master is at a Detonation's reach.

All things considered, I put my wings to good use and took flight, hearing the dragon's wings flapping right behind me. I dodged a series of Convulsions and Infernos, and spun around to cast a Void. The dragon was delayed, but not for long. I knew it would find a way around it.

This brief distraction made me notice that if I kept moving forward, I would conduct the dragon directly to my master. My essence vehemently rejected the idea. With an exasperated groan, I changed directions and took the form of a black cat, falling to the pavement. It hopped around randomly, trying to confuse the dragon. The cat climbed to a tree and bent the top down to the floor. Just when the dragon was about to roast the feline, it released the hold. The dragon fell on top of a house, crashing it down to a mere pile of bricks and tiles. I reckon we were even now.

Yet I didn't stick around to nurse its injuries. In fact, I don't think I've ever been happier to be summoned.

* * *

When I materialized, Nathaniel was pacing back and forth in his pentacle, presumably having been pulling at his hair and further ruining his nails. He plopped down to the floor once he noticed me, looking as miserably human as they come.

"Good heavens," he whispered. "I thought you were dead."

I was about to comment on it all being his fault, but given his state, I decided against it. I was still the cat when I spoke, but I decided to use the voice he was used to (14). "No, as you can see. But Clive is very dead."

(14) I don't suppose he'd be able to understand the feline speech either way.

Nathaniel looked up. "I found it strange Clive didn't show up for a while. Did he get caught in the fire?"

"How do you even know about—"

"I'm part of the Council, Bartimaeus. We've _all _been alerted." He sighed. "Jane will be at my throat tomorrow because of the papers." Pressing his fingers to his eyelids, he asked again, "Did Clive get caught in the fire?"

"Not quite." I scratched that spot that had been bugging me for hours on end, letting out a satisfied purr once I was done.

"So?"

"I ate him."

Nathaniel blinked. "You _ate _Clive?"

"Did you a favor, truthfully. I reckon you spent too much time listening to his ramblings instead of actually giving him his charge." He looked at me as if I had gained another head, which I knew I hadn't. I have perfect control over the shapes I choose. "Besides, he couldn't even speak properly, that little illiterate. Holding conversation with him was a painful occupation, especially with his tendency to sarcastic comments and exacerbated tales of his glory. It's all me, me, me with him."

Nathaniel was gawking by the time I finished. He swiftly pulled himself back together afterwards, drew himself up and said, "Well, now I have too much on my plate, but please do contain your appetite, and tell me what happened tonight."

I did. By the end he had produced a piece of paper and was furiously scribbling on it.

"This looks worse than I thought."

I nodded. "It isn't looking pretty alright."

"And you're positive it was the same afrit?"

"Who do you take me for? A human?"

"Just checking," he muttered. "This is a gigantic fiasco. A _dragon _on St. George's day? The commoners will lose their minds! All our enemies will see this as a weakness! This won't do, Bartimaeus. I have to take action."

He was on his feet again.

"Wait a minute," I protested. "_What _will you do? As far as we know, the dragon and its master are gone. We've lost their trail the moment you summoned me—"

"Well, _excuse _me for trying—"

"—and the Night Police is dealing with it already. The papers will print whatever they choose to print, you can't control all of them until morning. So just go to bed, read a book, have a cup of tea or whatever. Just don't forget to dismiss me first."

He had listened quietly during the rest of my logical speech, but the second I finished he was summoning Purip and Fritang to adjacent pentacles. He gave Purip specific instructions to transmit his message to the principal newspapers and sent Fritang to Farrar's side to get updates on the case. After that, he stepped out of the pentacle and fell back on his chair, looking worse than a granny after taking her grandchildren to the park. I could tell he was planning on falling asleep there without dismissing me.

With an aggravated sigh, I shifted back to Ptolemy and carried him to his bed while constantly chastising myself for being such a softie. I tucked him in gently, hearing his soft breathing, assuming he was sleeping.

"Bartimaeus…"

I looked at his face. He was out like a light.

I changed back to the cat and sat there beside him, watching him sleep. I knew he had others guarding the house, and I knew I was free to go out and travel a little, maybe, until he needed me again. And I knew, most of all, that I would probably regret curling up against him and purr when he reached out his arm to pull me closer. In hopes of assuaging my feeling of guilt and gloss over my unwillingness to harm him, I weighted in his blander terms of the contract, his genuine display of concern, and the fact that this idiot supposedly loved me.

All things considered, I don't know if it wouldn't have been better to have that dragon swallow me instead.

* * *

**Research, research; adapt, adapt. My brain's dead by now.**

**Happy St. George's day, and happy International Book day. (Hah. We are all celebrating ****_this _****one, aren't we? Who cares about slaying dragons?)**

**See you next week!**


	13. 11-Pawns&Games (Labour Day)

**It seems I didn't give humans enough credit in terms of holidays. I had totally forgotten about Labour Day, heh. (Maybe because it's a bloody Sunday and—) Stupid me.**

* * *

_I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes_

_In babble and revel and wine._

_O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,_

_For one that will never be thine?'_

_**Maud: XXII**_**, A. Tennyson**

* * *

John Mandrake was having a hard time, as was Nathaniel.

After having been spectacularly rejected by Bartimaeus, he had drowned himself in work to avoid any and every temptation regarding the djinni, as well as to nurse his very broken heart.

Mandrake walked briskly, at an energetic pace that shortened the time he had to think about anything but work. He kept more books on his bedside table than he could read in a week and made sure to eliminate emotional music from his surroundings. The young magician greeted his peers with the usual cordiality, and puffy, dark bags under his eyes greeted him every morning. He showered quickly, mechanically, always with a pressing matter in mind. He ate while he worked.

Nathaniel haunted him by night. Weird dreams and waves of emotion were the menu. He slept lightly; he woke up irritable and restless. The books failed to engage him, and his job to keep his agitated mind focused.

He missed Bartimaeus.

Wherever he went, Bartimaeus kept up with him, and there was not a damn thing Mandrake could do about it. Nathaniel would only come to the same conclusion from three years ago on Thanksgiving: the moon can only shine if the sun does too.

_However_, Bartimaeus' presence had only aggravated his state. He had fallen on his knees the moment he noticed he was unharmed, for crying out loud! And Bartimaeus—

No, he really didn't want to go there. Getting his hopes up only to have them crushed again didn't sound appealing in the least. He hadn't _asked _the djinni to guard him, though, so…

No. Don't think about that stupid djinni and how much you've missed him. But he was already thinking, wasn't he? And in the middle of work to boot.

"John, can I have a word?"

Mandrake looked up from the past year's statistics on murdered commoners during their campaign in America, realizing the data were blurry in his brain. The Council was having a small break, leaving him inside The Hall of Statues with only his cooling tea for company. The vapor snaked up between him and his former master. John motioned with his hand for the chair at his left, turning to face Jessica Whitwell.

"You and I have been the only ones pursued in February, and you reckon the culprit is the same as in the past week's accident?"

"Yes," Mandrake answered. "The afrit was the same."

"Unlikely to be a coincidence." Whitwell nodded, drumming her bony fingers against the table. "It is a peculiar case, this one. Our little rebel hunted us both down with extreme precision back in February. It was an isolated attack from which the afrit managed to escape.

"Afterwards, they wait longer than two months before they decide to burn down an ancient church. I rather think it wasn't planned. The previous occurrences point to our enemy being methodical, patient, and ruthless. Only one wing of the church was destroyed, and there is not a single magician reported missing."

"Not everyone agrees with that theory," Mandrake said, "yet I think you are correct."

Well, he _knew _she was correct, but he had decided not to disclose too much information regarding this case with the exception that he had a spy surveying the area. Telling anyone he was being followed would be regarded as pathetic, yet useful to find the one who was stalking him. Instead, he had told them Clovis had shared with him the spirit's class shortly before dying. Why? Because this case was really bothering him for some reason. They _had _managed to find him at his mother's graveyard, after all. Only his servants—Arthur the chauffeur included—and Bartimaeus knew where to find him. Why he was categorizing Bartimaeus differently needed zero explanation—he referred to Bartimaeus as a _he_, after all—yet he wanted to _punch _that thought down to allow his mind to concentrate on things of real importance.

"This case seems to point to an insider trying to eliminate competition," Whitwell continued. Mandrake took that opportunity to sip his tea. Peppermint again. He was going to give Bartimaeus an earful once that meeting was over. "But I wouldn't be fooled by that."

Mandrake put down his tea. "An outsider?"

"Might be. A resourceful one, guaranteed. But I haven't been targeted for years, and nothing has changed since then. Besides," she added, leaning in with a smirk on her lips, "_you _have silenced your own enemies recently, haven't you? They know what they are doing."

He pondered her argument in his mind. Truthfully, Mandrake had considered this. The only magician who would perhaps dare challenge him was his former master, yet there were very little chances of Jessica Whitwell doing so sneakily. She would have absolutely no problem with blatantly challenge him out in the open. However, he knew she was too practical to raise any waves when there was no need for such. And there was always Bartimaeus' description of the woman. It reminded him of no one. It was vexing and alarming.

"If that is the case, then we have a serious problem at hand." He frowned. "Shouldn't we be discussing this during our Council meeting, though?"

Whitwell gave an impatient growl. "Malbindi and Mortensen are far too narrow-minded to admit this might be an attack from the outside in spite of the appearances. Even your friend, Ms. Farrar, seems to have trouble recognizing where she sharpens her claws."

"Jane is very ambitious," he commented.

"But lacks experience," Whitwell insisted. "At any rate, that is irrelevant. The only thing Devereaux wants, besides discussing the last-minute arrangements to welcome the French, is to retire early for the day and enjoy the rest of the holiday."

"He isn't coming to greet them at the airport?"

Whitwell gave him a knowing look. "He'll assign the Foreign Minister to it, like he did with the German. Farrar and I will have to be there as is. Perhaps you should join us, John."

* * *

"You look tired, hon. Here, let me—"

"Bartimaeus!" Nathaniel shrieked, jumping from his seat. The chair fell back with a loud thud. "Watch where you put that thing!"

Bartimaeus regarded the pair of scissors with amusement in his eyes. "Don't be so hysterical. I was just about to open that shirt for you. How can you _breathe_ in there, anyway?"

Nathaniel walked past the Egyptian boy, scowling profusely. He needed distance to think straight. He hadn't seen Bartimaeus for sixty-eight days, yet there he was, behaving as if nothing had happened and trying to kill him with a pair of scissors! Having him around was hard enough. He didn't need Bartimaeus to make his heart leap every five minutes.

Bartimaeus put the scissors down and his hands up to show he was unharmed. "There, princess, I won't hurt you." Nathaniel's cheeks felt hot all of a sudden. He had nearly forgotten how it felt to be around Bartimaeus. The mood swings, the restlessness, the sweaty hands and the gracelessness of movements.

He growled, annoyed with himself. "Besides, haven't I told you not to make peppermint tea? You know I hate it."

"A thousand pardons, O my master, I was merely looking out for your health."

"Any other flavor will do. You're doing it on purpose."

"Naturally." Bartimaeus grinned. Nathaniel's breath was instantly trapped in his throat. It got worse when Bartimaeus closed the gap between them. The djinni leaned in. "So, what am I to do today? Laundry? The dishes? Your lunch-slash-dinner?" Nathaniel locked eyes with him, trying to decipher what was on Bartimaeus' mind. An impossible task, obviously.

"Be with me," he mumbled. Realizing his mistake just before Bartimaeus arched an eyebrow at him, he cleared his throat and rephrased, "Accompany me while I go welcome the French at the airport. They arrive today just before evening."

Why was Bartimaeus so close? He could barely keep his hands off whenever he was at a reasonable distance! He seriously needed the djinni to back off or he didn't know what foolishness he might do. Bartimaeus had been quite clear about where they stood. Nathaniel needed to get that message glued to his brain.

But again, _why _was Bartimaeus so close?

"Hm," Bartimaeus mused, farther closing the gap. Nathaniel could _hear_ his heart hammering against his chest. It was going to fly out at any time, for sure. "Ha! It _is _there." Bartimaeus furrowed his eyebrows, and put a cold hand on his neck, using his thumb to tilt his face up. Nathaniel swallowed, face hot and legs trembling in anticipation. "That little scar you got on Halloween, remember?" The thumb went up and down his Adam's apple. "You humans are so fragile. You'd think it would have disappeared by now."

Bartimaeus was obviously just toying with him. And being extremely successful, of course, if his face had any say in the matter. Besides, he had to breathe, he reminded himself. But his lungs became filled with the scent of different spices and the sun on a hot day against human skin. Nathaniel didn't know if it was his love-struck self that concluded Bartimaeus smelled like the sun or if he was just growing insane. Probably both, he reckoned.

He grabbed Bartimaeus' wrist and removed the hand from his neck, not daring to look at him. "You might not reciprocate," he spoke quietly, trying to still his raging emotions, "but you could at least respect my feelings enough not to make fun of them." He glanced up to find a surprised expression on the fake boy's face. However, his eyes didn't linger. "I know they mean nothing to you and that you don't want to be here, but you are the only one I can count on, even if it means I am a fool for doing so." He paused to breathe in resolve and assertiveness, yet failing at keeping the tremor in his voice at bay. "Just don't go around touching me so liberally if it means nothing to you. Please."

Nathaniel let go of the wrist, and swiftly made his way to the desk. He gathered some papers, pretended to give them a last look over and organized them on his briefcase. Bartimaeus didn't say anything, which made the baby hairs on his neck stand alert. He needed to focus on the case, on the dreadful possibilities, on _anything _but Bartimaeus. Those blissful days when he could trust his brain not to fail him were gone. Killed stone-dead because of a damned _feeling_. He sucked at being a magician.

"Funny," Bartimaeus started sourly, turning around with his arms crossed. "You had no problem with it before."

Nathaniel fumbled with the briefcase strap, mouth suddenly dry. "Well, you hadn't rejected me before."

"Did you expect me to start _dating _you or something?" the djinni scoffed. "Think about what you are implying here. We don't get along well enough as is, and you want me to _consider _stooping so low as to love a magician? One that nearly got me killed countless times and broke his promises one after another?"

His blood started to boil. Nathaniel didn't have time for this, nor the heart, he reckoned. He really didn't want to argue with Bartimaeus right when he needed him most. "I never _asked _you to! I never even asked you to stay by my side at night—"

"You did once."

Nathaniel blushed. "_Once!"_ he cried. "The other times you stayed because you wanted to. Don't start denying it! I know that bloody look you make when you are ready to make up excuses for this and that! If you're so great, O almighty Bartimaeus of Uruk, Rekhyt of Alexandria, at least be _honest _for once! Because I am so bloody tired of being looked down upon by you for being human! Can't you see that I can't help it?!"

The young magician didn't even blink when Bartimaeus grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, eyes burning and revolving like a fire tornado. He had expected it, and he didn't want to lose to Bartimaeus anymore. But his stomach churned, his hearth hopped frenetically, his fingers trembled. "My _God, _I want to kill you. Tear you apart limb by limb. Maybe grill you afterwards and put an apple in your mouth for metaphor purposes."

"Go ahead," Nathaniel heard himself say. There was a challenge in his voice that was foreign to his own ears. "Prove how much of a demon you actually are. You keep berating me for calling you one, and there you go acting accordingly."

"Do you have a death wish?!" Bartimaeus shouted. It echoed like thunderclap. "Don't _lower _me to your human standards, you moronic, suicidal prick!"

"What does it _matter _anyway?!" Nathaniel shouted back, gripping Bartimaeus' wrists tightly, not giving a damn about the fact that it probably felt feeble to the djinni. "You can bloody kill me if you so please! The terms of the contract only state you have to protect me from external attacks. You _know _it. I placed my trust in you just like you bloody suggested I did to prove to you how serious I am! _You _chose to overlook it!"

Nathaniel felt his feet being lifted off the floor. He huffed, acknowledging the tight pressure of Bartimaeus' grasp. Oh well. If he was going to die, might as well be honestly. "Listen closely, you little pompous git who has recently found out how to use 'bloody' in a sentence, I might have acted on my own a few times, but I was still enslaved!"

"I've _never _charged you with—"

"What choice did I have?"

"Are you bloody mental?! Don't make me sound like a rapist! You were as free as a bird on that matter!"

"Maybe, but you were still ordering me about whenever we weren't, er… whatever! Does that make us _equal_?"

"Does constantly dragging me down and making me feel inferior make us equal?"

"Then let us agree that we are _not_ equal in any way, _master_." Bartimaeus let go and Nathaniel fell flat on his back. "I am a five-thousand year-old djinni, and only _once _I have been treated with equality. So don't go around talking about trust and love like you know what it means."

"I am _trying _here, you infuriating spirit!" Nathaniel hastily got up, using his palms as support. He ignored the pain the quick movements had caused, and the questions that popped up because of what Bartimaeus had said. "The only thing you've been doing is sneering at my efforts without making any of your own."

"Well, congratulations. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Don't talk like you don't care and then go and cuddle with me right after you rejected me! Make up your mind, for crying out loud!"

"I reckon you are a tad confused here, dumbass. I am _not _human. The rules don't apply."

"So you are basically toying with me."

"Don't be an idiot. Who'd go out of their way to do such a thing?"

"Then—"

"Then nothing. Shut up already and get a move on. Aren't we supposed to be at the airport soon? John and Aileen, I mean."

"But—"

"Not listening." Bartimaeus made his way to the door.

"Bartimaeus—"

"Nope."

Taking a last long breath to calm his nerves, Nathaniel grasped his briefcase tightly, and walked towards the door. He had work to do, he reminded himself. Nathaniel looked up, blinked once and standing before him was Aileen. He let his eyes linger on hers for a bit, understanding their contained turbulence of shifting colours as one he didn't belong in. Then he turned on his heel, and Bartimaeus closed the door.

* * *

All the way to the airport Bartimaeus sang every possible variation of _London Bridge_, changing the lyrics so often Nathaniel couldn't tell the right ones from the invented ones anymore. By the time they reached Harlington, Nathaniel's tongue was bleeding from having been bitten so much. He could swear he'd heard Arthur chuckling to himself sometimes, but it's possible he had imagined it.

Once they arrived, Nathaniel went straight inside and towards the Europa Building, closely followed by Aileen, rushing past commoners and magicians alike. The airport was a huge glass structure framed by steel, with more storeys than he cared to count. It looked modern inside, bursting with commercial activity, both national and international.

Nathaniel got lost more often than he would have liked, for he couldn't exactly tell Bartimaeus to grow wings and survey the area. Naturally, Bartimaeus took advantage of the situation to comment on his lack of orientation skills, overjoyed with his own pun for longer than necessary.

While cranning his neck, he managed to spot Jane Farrar standing next to the car rental desk. Grabbing Aileen's hand, he squeezed his way through.

"At last," Jane said, a perfect arched eyebrow directed at him. Her green eyes wandered down and fell upon their joined hands. Noticing this, she sneered, "Mixing business with pleasure, are we, John?"

Nathaniel didn't know what to say to that. Her words were painfully true, more so than she had probably intended them to be. Nonetheless, he had solely acted on impulse to keep Bartimaeus from being delayed by the crowd. To let go now would look suspicious. He tangled their fingers, chest swelling with warmth and contentment. "Not at all, Jane, not at all. Aileen has spent some time in France, and we thought it would be interesting for the Ambassador to have someone to chat with before the actual negotiations take place."

"At any rate, we must get going. Malbindi and Whitwell can only entertain them for so long," she commented sardonically. Nathaniel motioned for her to lead the way. "I swear your former master has some ridiculous theories going through that asinine skull of hers. The times of her great doings seem to be fading into nothing right before her eyes, so she takes it upon herself to plant conspiracy theories everywhere she sees fit."

Nathaniel noticed Aileen's eyes rolling once. He kept moving forward as he said, "She is exceptional at her job, though, and very observant."

"Dear lord, John, don't tell me you have been swept by her words. The culprit _must _be some vengeful soul who yearns to fall on the Prime Minister's good graces, even if it means they have to eliminate who they consider competition."

Nathaniel didn't reply for a while, pondering if he should tell her he had solid reasons to believe otherwise. However, one look from Aileen reminded him that he should be careful. Come to think of it, the djinni hadn't said anything in a while, which should be painful enough for him as is, especially considering they were with Jane, and Bartimaeus didn't exactly appreciate her company. Nathaniel had to wonder why Bartimaeus was so sensitive about it—it's not like he hasn't been called 'demon' before. He reckoned their personalities were bound to clash either way, yet the dislike Bartimaeus showcased seemed quite passionate. Well, he wouldn't try to get them to be best friends, anyway. Knowing Jane, she might possibly already be suspicious, enough to maybe look into this false identity. He had to find a way to dispose of Aileen for good, before this turned into a bigger problem.

"We're here," she said. Jane showed her badge to the security guard standing by the door. "They're with me," she added when he lifted his eyes to them.

The door to the Plaza Premium Lounge was opened for them. Nathaniel let go of Aileen's hand to offer his arm instead. Bartimaeus smirked before accepting it, and Nathaniel coughed to hide his reddening cheeks.

The reception was empty since the lounge had been reserved exclusively for the arrival of the Ambassador, but there was a security guard standing on each side of the lounge. Jane turned right and Nathaniel followed her. She repeated the process and soon enough they were at the lounge.

He could tell the room had been arranged to accommodate a small group of people. The small wooden tables were joined together in the middle of the restaurant section to create a single one, and unneeded chairs removed. It was separated from the rest of the lounge by big wooden panels. Armchairs, coffee tables and lamps galore, Nathaniel regarded the room as comfortable and appropriate for its purpose. There was not much natural light, but it had been smartly countered with dim-lighting and the sober colour scheme that offered the room a certain grace and romantic vibe. Nathaniel pulled at his tie, very much aware of Bartimaeus' close presence when thinking such things.

"… therefore, the Prime Minister offers his deepest apologies, for he'd much rather be here to greet you himself," Malbindi was saying while Whitwell offered an apologetic smile. The three of them were sitting around a coffee table, untouched steaming tea before each of them.

"I wonder which excuse he used this time," Aileen whispered in his ear. It tingled.

Nathaniel didn't answer.

"_C'est la vie_," the Ambassador replied with a lilt of laughter to his voice. He was a tall man, abnormally red on the face, with small, light brown eyes and fading golden blond hair that barely covered his scalp. Nathaniel couldn't make out his eyebrows from where he was standing, but he immediately noticed the big, calloused hands and the marriage ring when he took a sip of his tea.

The Ambassador noticed their presence too, at last. "Oh, and you are?"

"John Mandrake, sir. Information Minister. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I apologize for my tardiness. Traffic was most horrible today."

"Likewise." The handshake was firm and curt. "And please, call me Frédéric. Frédéric Babineaux." Frédéric smiled. His eyes shifted to Aileen expectantly.

"And this is Aileen Monroe. My, huh…"

"Fiancée, correct?" The Ambassador kept smiling. He took Aileen's left hand and kissed it. Nathaniel's eyes landed on her hand and he nearly had a stroke; the sound of their exchanged pleasantries drowned out by his panicking. On Aileen's finger was an engagement ring.

An _engagement _ring.

He was done for.

"Yes, um, fiancée indeed. To be married. To tie the knot. Soon, hopefully. Lest no disaster take her away from me, marry we shall." He chuckled nervously.

Babineaux eyed him knowingly. "My better 'alf is currently recoverring from ze travel, but she will join us soon."

The Ambassador returned to his seat, leaving stunned Nathaniel standing there with a funny look on his face. He looked at Bartimaeus, eyes full of questions, and he could tell, even when no words were exchanged, that the djinni was probably loving every second of his despair from the way her smirk curled a bit at the corners of her lips and her bright eyes shone with glee.

To make himself busy, and to keep to his original plan, Nathaniel approached Jane, who was talking to one of the security guards.

He waited for her to notice his presence and dismiss the guard before saying, "Jane, I was wondering, how did Mrs. Babineaux get here?"

She furrowed her eyebrows at him as if he were being dumb. "Through the door, how else?"

"Yes, but did she come with the Ambassador?"

"Of course. They were escorted by their own security guards before coming to the room. I ensured the room security afterwards, so they are waiting outside."

Nathaniel nodded, beginning to form a picture in his mind. "Thank you."

"Oh, and John?" He turned around. "Congratulations on your engagement. Is it a boy or a girl?"

Nathaniel pursed his lips. "None. Thank you, Jane."

When he returned, Bartimaeus was chatting with the Prime Minister about architecture, looking genuinely interested. Nathaniel found the sight endearing for a second, before recalling that Bartimaeus might have just ruined his life with the ring episode. He was about to sit beside her when he heard the sound of heels echoing against the wooden floor. The others noticed too. Frédéric was the first to stand and rush towards the source of the sound.

A woman appeared, smiling at them. "Danielle, _ma chérie!" _Frédéric exclaimed, taking her hands in his before kissing each one.

Nathaniel waited for Malbindi, Whitwell and Farrar to be out of earshot to address Bartimaeus. "Is that her?"

Bartimaeus grinned, showing sharp fangs that didn't belong in such a lovely face. "No shadow of a doubt."

* * *

**My God, airports are complicated as hell. Jesus. I think I took longer researching than actually writing the damn section. (And right after I'd told **Moniko-chan **I would probably finish this one at a decent hour too. I suck.) Besides, remember this takes place in 2005, thus Europa Building is now called Terminal 2 (yet I had to describe the lounge like I know it, because, well… this might sound surprising, but I am young and stuff, and I have no idea how Europa Building looked.)**

**Fun fact: the French names were chosen with love. Danielle means "God is my judge," Frédéric means "peaceful ruler" and Babineaux is actually a reference to a joke a friend constantly makes at my expense.**

**See you next week (hopefully. If I don't die.)**


	14. 12-Peace&Pieces (Liberation Day)

**_So_****. Hi! Um, yup, this is very, ****_very _****late, and I ****_am _****alive. Honestly, it all started with my computer losing all of my files and me only being able to save about half of this chapter. And then I didn't like it and restarted it. And then writer's block hit. And then life hit. So this was just a snow ball getting bigger and bigger, dragging me down the hill. But here I am! **

**This chapter was supposed to have been posted on 9****th**** May, which means only one week has passed since the previous events.**

**Oh, one more thing before you go and read (if you're still with me, that is)! **Kimnd **is bloody amazing and figured out where the name Aileen came from. That's right. I was listening to ****_Come on Eileen_**** and poof! One letter changed and that was it. People who get my music references are something else. I salute you, **Kimnd the Great**.**

* * *

_But the rose was awake all night for your sake,_

_Knowing your promise to me;_

_The lilies and roses were all awake,_

_They sigh'd for the dawn and thee._

**Maud: XXII****, A. Tennyson**

* * *

_Bartimaeus_

At thirteen past midnight the weather was mild, contradicted only by sudden, brief chilly breezes that reminded you it was not summer yet. The buildings around me were mostly tall and modern, but beyond I could see a few smaller and older houses where commoners probably slept, above which the Thames silently ran, polluted as ever, as a line in the horizon that separated London from the sky. The streets were dimly lit by yellowish orange lights which resembled will-o'-the-wisps when seen from afar (1).

(1) Except for their real Earth form being that of a squid on fire when seen on all planes minus the first. They are the very definition of floating barbecue.

It had rained all day, and the pavement was still wet to prove it. I spotted a small puddle right beside a streetlamp, where I could see the sky, starry, and the moon, pale against the dark night's veils, was almost full, closing in the completion of yet another cycle. Smokey, shapeless clouds formed a spiral around it.

It was on nights like this that I most longed for home. Like many other spirits, my younger self had spent nights gazing up at the sky, wondering if flying directly towards it would take me back to the Other Place. Nowadays I mostly avoid looking at it, but tonight somewhat felt different. A nostalgic feeling egged me on.

Or it might be the fact that I was upside down and had absolutely no choice in the matter.

No one besides Nathaniel is to blame for this, of course, but I reckon he couldn't have asked another soul as skilled as I (2) to get the job done. Not to mention that throughout the entire week spies of his had looked for a chance to break in the hotel room to look for the documents he needed to prove his theories correct. He had a plan, granted that with an enormous failure rating given by me, but we had run out of time to come up with anything better.

(2) His words, not mine. I might have just adjusted some words here and there, including 'skilled' and 'I'.

What can I say? Espionage is starting to become the trend with him. Mind you, it's a more fitting job for great beings such as myself than, say, housekeeping, and better than having to fight in the war and get all that blood on me. Truthfully, I needed the exercise to help with the hitching and the pain of maintaining a physical form. And to get away from such a boring place.

Nathaniel barely stops there nowadays, thus there's no one to converse with, or make fun of. I _could _try the walls this time. He might not find it amusing, however, taking his previous reactions to my harmless pranks in account. He has spent the whole week running from one side to another, trying to find a way to understand what the French's real reasons for the visit were, consumed by sleep deprivation and mood swings, leaving me to my own devices more often than not. And, at night, when he came back home, I was away spying, so we haven't had much chance to kill each other these past days. Besides that one time when he yelled his head off at me for the ring thingy.

Now, don't fool yourselves. I didn't put a ring on my finger to send a subliminal message to the universe. It was just a way to mess with Nathaniel (3). Although you might be wondering—and fairly so because humanity is imperfect—why I didn't kill him the moment he summoned me under less strict restrictions. Quite the simple reason, actually, though _your _eyes wouldn't catch it. Probably.

(3) Which went perfectly, of course. I thought he was going to die of instantaneous combustion with the way his face reddened and smoke crept out of his ears. Bonus points for having pissed Farrar off.

His aura is changing.

The thing about auras is they are much like fingerprints to humans; in other words, unique, identifiable, and unchanging after a certain age (normally). Ptolemy had a very bright, warm aura, for instance. Nathaniel's had changed first when he summoned me for the second time, and gotten darker from then on. But now it is returning to a similar shade it once was.

Okay, so I _could_ have killed him nonetheless. But then I wouldn't be able to continually pester him about his soft side taking over and actually see how far he goes. Not good enough of a reason to you? Well, then how about the fact that he had actually trusted me a bit for a change? I am both talking about the fact that he hadn't ordered me not to kill him, and that he actually took me to an airport full of magicians I managed to deceive by using a copious amount of Glamours and Concealments. And he held my hand in front of that loathsome Farrar. It would normally mean absolutely nothing to me, given that I was under orders, but there was something about that act that reminded me a bit of Ptolemy. And bang went my arguments regarding equality. He is winning, that idiot, and it bothers me more than it should.

The Big Ben signalled two more minutes have passed.

It is time (4).

(4) And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you return to the plot.

The Egyptian fruit bat stretched its wings and glided down to the streetlamp. It observed its reflection on the puddle with serene curiosity. Big amber eyes blinked back and then gazed at the target—a thirty-something year-old man was walking down the street with a resolute furrowing of eyebrows that might be intrinsic to his profession. His black suit contrasted with the brick-walled hotel. He threw the bat a quick glance and the bat stared back, a knowing glint in its orbs. He was down on the floor the next moment.

"Great timing," I complimented.

"Thank you," the human-sized bunny said, promptly putting down her baseball bat (5). "I don't understand why they keep the tradition of having a security guard in a hotel when imps would do a better job."

(5) It had a carving that read 'Too close' on it, courtesy of yours truly.

"To not freak the commoners out, I guess." The bat released the grasp on the street lamp and became the passed out security guy midway through the fall. William Norton was auburn haired and blue-eyed, had hands twice the size of Nat's, square jaw and shoulders, and a permanent wrinkle between his thick eyebrows.

Mwamba handed me a card she'd taken from Norton's suit jacket pocket. I took it and stuck it in my own. "Well, I better hide this thing," she pointed to Norton, "somewhere. Ascobol should already be in position, I hope."

We separated. Mwamba pulled him over her shoulder like he was a meatbag and went back the way around the hotel. I continued down the street, turning right when I reached the corner. There was another security guard at the front door, supposed to change shifts with William Norton at thirty past midnight. Norton was, as per usual, around ten minutes early.

"Hello, mate." He offered me a polite grin. "Early as usual, aren't you?"

"Good evening, Miles," I greeted back, not returning the smile. William Norton wouldn't be gaining smile lines any time soon, so I kept in character.

"It's a warm night, isn't it? Makes you feel like summer is actually around the corner."

Thank you, Captain Obvious. I've mentioned that hundreds of paragraphs above. "Indeed."

If he was bothered by my lack of response, he didn't let it show.

Richard Miles is a freckled, chatty little fellow (6) who gestures wildly during conversation and chews his nails down to their nubs. He has a mass of ginger curly hair that looks like someone decided to pour spaghetti Bolognese on his head. His eyes are light brown, big, and always wide, as if I've spent the last five minutes slapping him awake. To his credit, he has a nice set of teeth and, when he smiles, a dimple appears on each of his cheeks (7).

(6) And do believe me when I say little. He is unnervingly short and thin for a security guard. Norton towers over him, almost comically so.

(7) His _face _cheeks. How would I know how the others look when he smiles? Don't be ridiculous.

Miles continued chatting away until he noticed his shift was ending in two minutes. He was dialing the PIN to get in and get his stuff when I spoke. "Miles, do you mind if I use the restroom first?"

"Sure, go on ahead, buddy."

He opened the door for me to pass. I put my hand on the glass door to keep it opened and said, in a philanthropic fashion, "You know, aren't you too young to be working here?" Without him noticing, I sent in a Pulse.

He chuckled. "Do you think so?"

I felt a small breeze pass me by once. "Not really my business, but maybe try something else not as risky as a security job." All true statements to boot. Such pearls of wisdom wasted on a human being.

He stared at me with amusement in his eyes before answering. "Well, the pay is good and I need it to help my father."

I nodded. A second breeze came and went as fast as the first. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! I've been waiting for the last twenty seconds of this ridiculous conversation. "Good luck with that, then."

I closed the glass door without waiting for his answer. My hand felt numb from having been so close to that iron handle. The Pulse returned yellow to me, which means that probably there aren't spirits higher in rank than djinn around this floor. Good news since I'm not really in a position to deal with that afrit.

A big bronze chandelier is the centerpiece of the hall, and two elevators stand respectfully behind it. The polished champagne onyx floor extends in all directions, and the dark grey marble walls feature various London landscapes by national artists. There is a grey reception desk at the left that almost blends with the wall, with two desktop computers and a jar with white orchids on top of it. A round bronze clock and a calendar hang side by side on the wall. At the right side are a bunch of light grey armchairs and two glassy bronze, hexagonal-shaped coffee tables.

I turned right and took a couple steps, taking note of the emergency exit door at the back next to the elevators and the restroom doors at their left from out the corner of my eye.

"Here," Ascobol said. An item was thrown in the hair. I easily caught it. "Those are spare keys to the room." Luckily the curtains were closed or else Miles would have seen us.

I took out Norton's card and handed it to him. "Don't be a brute. Or rather, don't be your usual self." I smirked, yet my mirror frowned at me. Ascobol said nothing else; he chose to let out a loud barf instead. I stared at him, positively unimpressed.

Mwamba stepped out of the shadows as an elegant woman with feline eyes and short raven hair. She was also wearing a black suit to keep up with the security guards façade. With a piercing glare sent on Ascobol's way, she said, "The stairs are past the restroom. That's where we should head to. Also, I sent two Pulses to track the upper floors, so we should find them halfway."

I nodded. We all knew what to do.

As soon as Ascobol took Norton's place outside and Miles was out of sight, Mwamba and I calmly walked towards the stairs, refusing to be trapped inside one of those iron elevators. Both of our guises were stretched to the sixth plane. Besides, we had the perfect cover: two security guards patrolling the floors to ensure the hotel clients' well-fare and overall satisfaction.

We reached the thirteenth floor at half past midnight, so everything was going according to plan. The Pulses Mwamba had sent came back yellow as well. However, the Babineaux hadn't left the room completely uncared for. Two foliots were standing on the carpeted hallway in the form of black, bald, sturdy security guards, equipped with dark sunglasses, flashlights, bulletproof vests, and fake two-way radios.

"What do you say," Mwamba whispered, "one for each?"

I considered her words. "Nope. They could still sound the alarm if they were quick enough."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"Run," I said.

"What?"

I grinned. "Run."

She had barely registered what I'd said when I yelled, "Don't let her get away!" at the top of my fake lungs. Mwamba threw me a glare and shot right down the hallway past the two foliots and towards the emergency exit. They were quick to take action after the initial shock ebbed away. Soon they were on her tail, leaving me behind to do as I pleased. I wasn't worried about Mwamba; I knew she could take two foliots any day. I was just sad I would miss the look on their faces when they realized she wasn't actually a human being. Truly a pity.

Anyway, I had some work to do and little time if they still decided to sound the alarm instead of believing I would do so.

Using the spare key, I entered the room 1302. I could tell at first glance that this room had been refurnished to please the visitors solely by the colors and patterns it used. Just to give you a general picture: there were red roses everywhere.

The hall parted in two different ways. To the left there was a small living room equipped with a blue couch turned to face a large TV, a bookcase filled with some French classics, a tea table, and a white mini bar that looked bigger than it should rumbled in the quietude of the room. To the right the hallway was a maze of doors, those belonging to the wardrobe, the bedroom, in the middle, and the bathroom. The last two had been left ajar.

I walked in the bedroom. The window was covered by royal blue curtains (8) that matched the duvet, and the bed was turned to face a large mirror framed by golden flower details. The throw pillows were royal blue, white, and red. Even the bedside tables had wooden miniatures of French monuments: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomph, Notre-Dame de la Garde, etc. It was absolutely ridiculous, I tell you. The epitome of butt-kissing.

(8) Looking at those curtains reminds me of one of the pranks I pulled this week. Very creative they were. This past Thursday, while in the guise of a unicorn, I was trotting about the house, totally minding my business, when I get this _urge _to dance in Nat's living room. The curtains made dull dancing partners, but they'd have to do. Later he found them ripped apart on the floor, sprinkled with rainbow glitter. In my defense, those curtains understood nothing of ballet. The world is better off without them.

I grabbed the Eiffel Tower and turned it upside down to find exactly what I had been looking for. I slid my finger across the wood. There were still some traces of the price sticker. A snicker bubbled up in my throat. Englishmen are ridiculous.

Without wasting any more time, I started rummaging through their stuff, looking inside drawers and underneath the bed, under the tea tray on the living room and on the back of the paintings. At last I reached the wardrobe, and opened it to reveal a small vault. Made of iron, of course, to keep undesired visitors at bay. Long coats and dresses hung there, brushing the vault's top surface.

I looked around for something with which to insert the numbers without actually hurting myself in the process. Peering through the bathroom door I spotted, on the granite countertop, scattered make-up utensils. I chose a brush and hit the number zero four times, putting my hopes on human idiocy for not changing the hotel's default code. Unfortunately for me, it didn't work.

I stared at the box, weighing its chances of survival against magic. Considering London to be a generally well-functioning city in terms of magical activity, I discarded the idea. Well, I would just have to wing it, wouldn't I?

_Fortunately_, due to my great well of knowledge and wit, the second time I inserted the correct PIN. As predicted, the Ambassador and his wife must be a patriotic (9) couple, for the French Revolution's date did the trick (10). I smirked and opened the vault…

(9) And murderous and unstable, as far as the wife is concerned.

(10) In other words, 1789, _or _the year democracy and liberalism started the ten long years of brutally kicking monarchy in the chins. The irony.

…to find it absolutely empty with the exception of a pair of faux diamond earrings. What's worse is that, right after that incredibly anti-climatic moment, a long loud howl interrupted the silence and gave me such a jolt I nearly flew right through the ceiling (11).

(11) Not the best experience one might have from what I've been told. I imagine my undersupplied fellow spirits who have experienced this would tell you the same. I wouldn't know, it's never happened to me. Ascobol's name springs to mind—go ask him once you've managed to pull his oversized cyclops' head out of the ceiling.

It's a clever little trick, to have the alarm go off every time the vault is opened. Desperately, I checked the bathroom and came out empty-handed. I was already hearing approaching steps once I got to the bookshelf and started turning books upside-down. Besides ruining a very old-looking exemplar of _Les Misérables_, throwing _Le Petit Prince _over my shoulder and shaking _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra _until a few sheets of paper came loose, I found nothing. I was about to give up and break through the window when my eyes caught the mini bar. Swiftly, before anyone barged in, I placed a Seal on the door to delay undesired company. I heard Ascobol's grunts coming from the other side of the door already, urging me to hurry up.

"Why, do you have a date?" I called back. "And you're going in _that _smock? Heavens, Ascobol, I thought higher of you."

He spat back my name, and I pretended he didn't exist.

Those were the most blissful five seconds I've had in a while.

Getting back to the mini bar, I knelt on the floor and felt no magic resilience coming from it. Which could mean two things: one, there was nothing here and I was wasting my time; two, something incredibly valuable was in here and someone has been smart enough to draw as little attention to it as possible. Hoping with all my essence for the second, I opened it.

There was the usual amount of alcohol, mainly champagne and scotch, but it wasn't even half full. Yet I noticed that the top seemed lower inside. I closed and opened the door to test my theory. At first I had pondered the possibility of a false bottom, but it didn't appear to be the case. I stuck my hand inside, searching for anything that would open the top hidden compartment.

That's when the door burst open and a half-dozen foliots or so rushed in. I glimpsed Ascobol holding two by their throats and turning them to ashes by out the corner of my eye. Mwamba sliced another in half. They kept coming, however, and I believed that soon there would be higher spirits here as well.

A bottle of champagne rolled to the floor. That gave me an idea. With perfect aim (no less expected from me, naturally), I threw it over the sofa and right on an eagle-headed foliot's face. It broke on contact and shards of glass pierced her eyes.

Growling, she made a break towards me. I extended a hand as if about to offer her a chocolate cupcake, and let an Inferno burst on her face right when she was close enough to take the direct impact. The foliot toppled over the couch, setting it on fire. I glared, peeved at her for having just made everything more difficult. Foliots are incompetent even when they're unconscious. Soon enough, the fire alarm was also in hysterics, joining the other in a fierce competition for spotlight. The jury declared it was a tie on annoyance and persistence.

Turning back towards the mini bar, I punched the top thrice from below. The remaining bottles clinked, indignant at the disturbance. The screws holding it came loose and a freezer bag slid out of the broken false top right onto the floor. I picked it up and smirked, pleased with my genius work.

"Bartimaeus!" Ascobol yelled from over the commotion. I spun around to the sight of flames licking the bookshelf and water rushing out of the bathroom like a small river. Mwamba and Ascobol were standing with their backs to me, at an arm's reach away, fending off foliots as they made their way in.

I made a ball of fire and threw it right between their legs. If I were bowling, you'd call it a strike. The foliots fell back in domino effect. Unfortunately, as they did so, the room was practically set on fire. Both of my partners in crime turned to look at me in disbelief. I waved the bag in front of their noses.

"We can't possibly make Ascobol's date wait. So, shall we?"

Mwamba was the first to break through the nearest window, pieces of glass raining on her dragon wings as she exited the building the good old way (12). I closed the mini bar and scooted it up with my free hand. Then I punted it over the room towards the open door. A set of satisfying squeaks told me all I wanted to hear, for I was already following Mwamba out of the room and didn't care to stick around and check. Ascobol was soon on my tail, showering the foliots with Convulsions and Spasms as we went.

(12) Doors are _so _overrated.

We parted ways not long after, each of us changing shapes to small birds. I was a carrion crow flying towards the horizon with the moonlight shining on my feathers, holding the freezer bag with my claws.

* * *

_Nathaniel_

Everything made sense to his tired mind once he put the documents down, yet he didn't want to believe a word of it. Because that meant acknowledging everything might end for him that night.

He was back in his office, back in this chair he spent so much time on, back at this desk where some of the most important decisions of his career had been made, back with Bartimaeus impatiently bouncing about on the wooden floor, head turning this way and that. He was back to where he belonged, books neatly lined in alphabetical order behind him and everything.

But everything felt so out of place and vertiginous.

Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair in dismal hope of concealing the way his sweaty fingers were trembling. The lump in his throat wasn't disappearing any time soon seeing as it was still there after each time he swallowed. He could feel his heart thumping against his left temple and how tense each of his muscles was. His head was swirling with brand-new, shocking information. So much so that he had barely managed to reproach Bartimaeus for reading the documents without his permission. And now he knew _everything_. A layer of humiliation registered somewhere within, but he could and would not mind it at the moment.

Pressing his fingers to his sore, tired eyes, he let out a long and anxious exhale that shifted Bartimaeus' attention to him. He didn't ease the pressure for a while, forcing the tears back in.

"Well?" Nathaniel opened his eyes to meet Bartimaeus'. "It's been over a half hour. We don't really have time for this, do we?"

He licked his lips, buying some time. He so desperately needed _time _right now. "No," he conceded in a hoarse voice, "we really don't."

Nathaniel thought for a second that Bartimaeus was about to provide him with a witty remark that would seriously get on his nerves, possibly suggesting that he dismissed him, by the way he was perking up and his eyes grew wider. However, Bartimaeus did nothing of the sort. Instead, he closed his mouth and opened it, before closing it again.

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

Then the rain started, slow and hesitant at first, as a toddler taking their first steps. After a minute, it was an angry giant stomping on the roof and drumming its fat fingers against the windows. When it rains, it _really _pours. But this was not the proper time to get emotional over what he'd read. This was a sign for him to deal with business first. He couldn't let his emotions get mixed in this matter, as much as his life already was.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times to get himself together, and then said, "I have to get this information to the Prime Minister and the Council, but I cannot risk the message being intercepted. Moreover, if I act now, they'll know it was me who stole the documents." Nathaniel raised his eyes to Bartimaeus. "Because _someone _wrecked havoc at the hotel, they must have been immediately notified."

Bartimaeus made an indignant sound. "You should be grateful towards me! I took out your revenge on champagne. There was no bottle left to laugh at your lack of alcohol tolerance, cross my heart."

"You _don't _have a heart."

Bartimaeus rolled his light caramel eyes. "Pft, details. Don't be so literal." He then crossed his arms over his chest and bent forward. "Besides, _I _got the job done. You're _welcome_."

"You risked the entire operation—"

"But I made it, did I not?" Bartimaeus smiled a toothy smile at his glare. "You can make it up to me later."

Nathaniel found himself blushing in spite of all the reasons he should not. Bartimaeus was _just _teasing him, nothing else. There were no second intentions there. He cleared his throat. "Let's just drop that and concentrate on the present situation."

Bartimaeus shrugged. "You could simply make a formal accusation."

"No. We can't touch them because they have diplomatic immunity. It's a pain to go around that, legally speaking. The best we can get out of it is expulsion, and that would be like inviting war in."

"Then why send us out for these documents?"

"Because _we,_" Nathaniel gestured to both of them, "knew for a fact they were hiding something, but the others didn't. And, as I said, I can't risk letting them know right now; certainly not _everything. _We have to wait for the Council to meet and think of something meanwhile…" He stopped when something he had been investigating sprang to mind. "The previous Ambassador took a sabbatical to take care of his health. Not a month later, he dies because his health deteriorated at an alarming speed." Bartimaeus cocked an eyebrow at him. "_That _is what the medical record says."

"You've been doing your homework," he commented.

"I'm a member of the Council. You should expect nothing less."

"Whatever you say, kiddo."

"_Besides_," he emphasized, trying to regain control of the situation, "we are presently at peace with France; not to mention the Channel Islands' jurisdiction belongs to both The Empire _and_ France. A new Ambassador was a most urgent measure to tie us together, if anything. Even though that's not an Embassy's role, I'm positive France plans to keep us under watch this way. See how formal their arrival was?"

"And to keep England from claiming the islands for The Empire sneakily," Bartimaeus added with a snort.

There was a flash of fury that appeared so fast Nathaniel barely felt it coming. Mouth opened, ready to protest. He closed it and pondered for a moment before saying: "Although I don't think the Prime Minister would do such thing, it's a wise move to replace the Ambassador. The issue with that is we can't decide anything during these meetings until later today, when the President of France and Jersey's Bailiff are supposed to join us and participate through high-level scrying glasses._ And _we must not touch them or France will have an excuse to attack," he commented, grimacing. "I _really _shouldn't have these with me."

Bartimaeus smirked that satisfied-with-myself smirk so present in Nathaniel's memory. "But they _shouldn't_ be in possession of those documents, am I right?"

"Yes."

"Therefore, what happened at the hotel will be labelled as an accident even though they know that's not the case." He paused. Nathaniel stared curiously at him. "But they won't be able to do a thing about it, because if the documents were to be found, they'd be accused of treason and, at the best of chances, sent home. Or worse, have their diplomatic immunity waived. Even the President himself can't let that slide right under his nose without doing anything about it."

"That is _if_ the President isn't involved in all this mess as well. Then, the moment these documents are made public, the feeble peace will be broken and we'll be at war with France in a blink of an eye," Nathaniel grumbled. "And how am I going to explain having these documents? This will make The Empire look suspicious and mistrusting!"

He was feeling the frustration welling up again. His stomach was tied in painful knots. Gladly, he hadn't eaten anything in hours, or else the scenario might not have been looking pretty for him and his office.

"There _is _another option, you know?"

Nathaniel half-groaned, rubbing at his temples for the nth time that night. He wanted this problem to go away. "What is it?"

"You could let Jersey be independent. France would never expect that move, and Jersey would certainly be pleasantly impressed and happy."

"That's too wishy-washy!" Nathaniel cried. "You're suggesting we just hope it works."

"Look, I have millennia of experience on my side. From what you've told me, you don't have the means to deal with a French invasion right now, and they're planning on slowly stealing territory from The Empire anyway. Doing the unexpected is what will help you."

"You're wrong," Nathaniel stubbornly decided. "We can't let Jersey go; it might fall on their hands! Besides, granting their independence would be seen as a weak move. The Empire is _not _weak."

Bartimaeus sighed. "Do as you want, but then don't say I didn't warn you."

"You do realize I'm _not _the one with the power to—"

"Let me out of the pentacle."

Nathaniel furrowed his eyebrows. Bartimaeus wasn't even looking at him. "Excuse me?"

The djinni was already up, looking anxiously out the windows. "Let me out of the pentacle," he repeated, this time with petulance, "and summon the others."

"Wha—why? What's happe—?"

"They are looking for a way in," Bartimaeus informed, eyes narrowed and focused, "searching for weak spots."

"Who's _they_?" Nathaniel could feel his heart pounding in his head at an increasing speed. "Do you think—?"

"_Nathaniel_," Bartimaeus pressed, turning to him.

Nathaniel gasped, sucking in words he meant to say and freezing the thoughts inside his mind. The look Bartimaeus was giving him made his skin crawl. A drop of sweat slid down his back, causing hairs to stand alert on its way. However, a part of him stayed so calm, casting a blind trust on Bartimaeus. Nathaniel often hated that part of himself. Because his hands were clenching the armrests so earnestly, but his legs were ready to move.

"B-Besides, I can't just summon them and then let you all out. Or let you out and _then _summon them. That's just—"

"Nathaniel." That was the third time he'd been interrupted already. And Bartimaeus was currently on the edge of the pentacle, with palms up, nearly touching the barrier and getting hurt. "Trust me, okay?"

And that was it. Nathaniel was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of dejá vu. "I do trust you," he babbled before he could stop himself.

Something cracked.

Their eyes stayed locked the entire time, and every movement he made seemed to take a century, as if he was in Jupiter, racing against gravity. With a thumping heart, about to take a leap of faith, he rolled his chair out of the pentacle.

Bartimaeus was free.

He was a gargoyle before Nathaniel could blink. He expected Bartimaeus to fly directly towards him and end it all in a fitting, nostalgic finale. A deranged part of him wished he did. That way he wouldn't have to deal with everything that was to come.

Something shattered.

Bartimaeus _did_ fly towards him, and he _did_ collide with him, stealing all air from his lungs and sending both of them sliding across the floor and towards the bookcases. There was red and there was orange exploding in Nathaniel's eyes. And there was gray Bartimaeus.

The house quaked for a few seconds from the impact before settling down again.

Nathaniel thought that surely this must be the end for him. But Bartimaeus had put a hand atop his head to ease the impact against the bookcases, although it did nothing to stop the books from raining down on them. Bartimaeus sheltered Nathaniel from most of it, but one book hit his right shoulder and another got his eyebrow.

"Just guess who could have listened to me _sooner _to avoid having _all these books _on us. Now they don't sound so rich, do they?"

With quick movements, Bartimaeus got rid of the books lying on his back and brought Nathaniel to a sitting position. He was coughing against the back of his hand and sucking air in the intervals. The chair was on the floor, cast aside, with its wheels still spinning at a furious speed like it was about to take flight.

When there was a second, albeit less violent explosion, Bartimaeus acted on impulse and pulled Nathaniel against him, caging him with his body. Too surprised to do much of anything, Nathaniel peered over Bartimaeus' shoulder and wing.

The windows had been shattered open. There was fire licking the carpet inches away from his pentacle—inches away from where he'd been seconds before. The curtains were also aflame and, with the wind's aid, were already setting fire to the closest armchair and bookcase. They hissed; the walls moaned.

Horrified, he lifted his wide gaze to Bartimaeus, who was already studying his eyebrow wound. Nathaniel unconsciously touched it, and let his eyes fall to the floor.

"And _that_, ladies and gents, makes two things you owe me. And _just for tonight_." In a deep purr, he added, "You're welcome."

"Thank you," Nathaniel said, meaning it. That seemed to throw Bartimaeus a bit off-balance, he noticed with slight satisfaction.

"Yes, well, um…let's get moving. I don't want to end up a roasted djinni. I'm far too remarkable for that."

They were already standing up when Nathaniel added, "And take those documents."

"Get them. I'll try something."

Nathaniel threw a glance at the foliots that were gathering to protect the house against the invasion as he urgently put the documents back in the file. He knew they wouldn't hold out much longer if they didn't do something about it. A last minute panicked thought had him take his scrying glass from the top drawer and pocket it. He saw Bartimaeus place a Seal on each broken window and an enemy's foliot collide with one and being rebounded. Then he cast a vertical Shield all over the wall, adding Fluxes to reinforce it.

Bartimaeus looked incredibly worn out when he finished.

"That won't do much," he rasped out. As if they'd heard him, a projectile crashed against the wall, leaving a hole the size of a baby elephant. Nathaniel heard the bricks land in cascade outside. All that was left were thin layers of defensive energy separating their assailants from them.

Without further notice, Bartimaeus came back, scooped Nathaniel up and ran to the door, stealing a glance towards his handiwork as he did. A foliot let out an agonizing shriek. He grimaced, and held Nathaniel tighter.

* * *

_Bartimaeus_

"I can't see anything."

"Keep moving."

"I_ am_."

"Slowpoke."

Thud. "Ow! I stubbed my toe!"

"That's their only purpose, isn't it? There you go, doing things right for a change."

"You—" I clasped a hand over his mouth and pulled him with me against the wall. His hand shot up to my wrist almost immediately afterwards. He used it to pull mine down.

A quiet rustling had caught my attention. I cast a small Flux and let it slide along the hallway. A lonely suction sound later and my hands were off him.

"What was that?" he asked in a whisper, turning to me.

"An imp, I believe. Probably surveying the area." I eyed the hallway one last time before nudging him forward again. "Come on, now. That ploy won't last long once they get to the library."

Meaning I was too weak to let them properly have it. I had installed a discreet Nexus there, and had made sure I'd left plenty remnants of magic for them to sniff. I had used Fluxes to erase my steps in this direction, but you can never be too careful with bloodthirsty assailants around.

He continued moving along the corridor, hand glued to the wall not to lose his sense of direction (13), his shoulders stiff, with trembling limbs and anxious eyes galore—truthfully a human being in all his glory. However, he wasn't complaining anymore, and that was certainly progress.

(13) For those of you who haven't noticed yet, humans don't really do well with chaos. Or rather, with anything that falls on the category of 'different'. You lot have developed some sort of allergic reaction to that notion.

"This would've been much easier if you had a house of a decent size," I commented. He didn't reply to that, so I decided to change topics. "Are you sure that shoddy piece of work got the message across?"

Nathaniel felt for his pocket, where his dubious scrying glass was, and said, "Hope so."

He had been pretty quiet since the moment he'd left the pentacle, and I couldn't blame him. I was surprised myself. Nathaniel was probably still munching on the information I had brought him. Through all my years of being forced to watch human relationships, I knew his case was not the worst I had seen; however, for a petty being such as himself, this could prove quite the challenge.

I shrugged, and then remembered he's a handicapped being who can't see when it's so dark. "As long as you don't turn a babbling religious martyr on me."

Not long after, I heard muffled steps rapidly approaching, and I cast a Seal on the closest window in hopes of fooling our stalker.

"Be as quiet as your brain now."

"Wha—" Anticipating his response, I'd moved a few steps ahead and clasped my hand over his mouth again. Lifting him by the waist with my free arm, I pulled him up and floated through the corridor with the aid of my angel wings (14).

(14) This is called poetic justice.

There was a distant explosion, but no noises hinting at broken glass. I picked up my pace, nonetheless. At this point, Nathaniel had taken to grasp both my arms and occasionally turn his head this way and that, constantly searching for things he couldn't see in the dark. Briefly, it occurred to me that this situation might be triggering not so pleasant events, making them flood his memory lane. Not that he's verbally expressed any of this to me, proud as he is to share any of his fears, but humans are predictable, easily traumatized creatures, so you never know (15).

(15) Like this one mistress I'd had some decades ago. She couldn't look at cats again after I told her they'll eat you when you're dead. It's free food, what else would you expect? She obviously overreacted.

I took a left. Nathaniel tightened his grasp, and I instinctively pulled him closer. He relaxed a bit. Immediately after we made it to the kitchen, my Nexus was triggered. The siren echoed hysterically in the eerily quiet house. Nathaniel jolted up, once more digging his nails in my fake flesh. I put him down next to the fridge so he would know where he was.

"We'll have to split up," I informed him. By the look in his eyes, I could tell he was about to argue with me. "Be quiet." He closed his mouth. "They'll realize we're not there soon enough, and you'll need a head start if you want to make it to the Prime Minister's place alive."

He shook his head, still speechless.

"Look, you idiot, I'm the only one who can turn into you, right? Do you see anyone here fitter for this job? No? Thought so. Now let's get you to Arthur."

To prove my point, I changed my form to look like him, although he couldn't exactly see it. I took his forearm, ready to drag him along if I had to, but he dug his heels down on the kitchen's floor and said, "Absolutely not. Besides, you'll ruin my image completely, I'm sure."

I rolled my eyes at him, for once minding that he couldn't see. "Is this _really _the time for vanity?"

He broke free of my hold, grabbed me by my suit jacket. "I'm not losing you too!"

His eyes were determined, fiercely so. This actually made me pause for a bit to recollect my thoughts, but not long enough to let him know how much that had actually meant to me. It would be easier if I just didn't acknowledge it.

"Listen closely, you pipsqueak," I started, already impatient to get him away from my sight, "you're the one who wants to save The Empire, not me. I couldn't care less if it crumbled to pieces and all that was left was an insignificant footnote on History books for your great-great-great-grandchildren to read. So long as there are your great-great-great-grandchildren around someday to read about how unparalleled and ingenious I am."

Nathaniel's eyes clouded with emotion. He choked out my name before inhaling deeply to compose himself. Then he shook his head. "I don't like this," he breathed out.

I grabbed his wrists to free myself from his hold. "Trust me, I'm not feeling giddy myself."

"Then—"

"Do you have any other brilliant plans up your sleeve?"

A crack was heard, followed by the deafening sound of wood collapsing, as if urging us to get it over with. The smell of burning wood came later.

"The staircase," I informed a wide-eyed Nathaniel. "Nat, we don't have time to discuss this over tea. Don't you have your deceased mother's honour to save or some equally preposterous thing to do? That corrupt priest, and your good-for-nothing father, will you let them get away with it? Will you let them ruin your life and destroy all your ideals and yada, yada, yada?"

I saw his eyes getting redder, and I braced myself for an uncanny sight. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the servant's door being crashed open. My hands had moved on their own to push Nathaniel out of the way before I realized who it was.

The dim lighting from outside crawled lazily inside the room to reveal a cream coloured kitchen, which was probably the smallest room in this needlessly enormous house. The cupboards and counters were dark wooden and contrasted well with the light cream colour of the splashback, floor tiles and granite countertops. The fridge stood opposite of it all for some reason. Even the oven had a place among the counters, but no, not Mr. Fridge the Lonely.

But I digress. Truthfully, Arthur must have had quite the surprise when he saw not one, but two of his masters standing in an unlit kitchen, glued to Mr. Fridge the Lonely as if in the middle of having a guilty midnight snack.

Nathaniel sighed in relief when he noticed who it was, and I removed his hands from my shirt before he ruined it and my disguise went down the gutter. You all know by now how attached to his shirts this piece of work is.

Arthur's gray eyes briefly shifted between the both of us before looking at the real Nathaniel to say: "Sir, I've brought the car around. We should hurry." No surprise there. I had long figured Arthur had Resilience to magic on New Year's, and a potent one too, given that he had been able to see through all seven planes and huge amounts of Glamours and Concealments I'd put about me.

Nathaniel looked up at me, locking his eyes on my chin for a moment. _Yes_, I had included the little scar he got on Halloween. I had to look like the real thing, did I not? I released his hands quickly, motioning with my head towards the door. "Go."

He nodded, his lips in a firm, stern line.

"Wait, I…" He produced the file with the documents from inside his suit jacket, and took out the sheets of paper which had his background all exposed in fine, detailed lines of text. "We should burn this." He handed them to me.

"I will. Now go. Disappear from my sight. Shoo."

There was a loud crash coming from the other side of the hallway. Nathaniel started. They were probably already done with the library. Any time now they would find us here.

With a shaky inhale, Nathaniel needlessly nodded again. Then, on a whim, he grabbed me by the shoulders and crushed his lips against mine for a brief moment. I barely had time to register what had happened before he let me go.

I smirked. "You reckon you just kissed yourself. That's some form of self-flattery."

Nathaniel urgently moved his hands up to cup my face and held my gaze, unwavering. "Kissed _you_. It's _always _been you."

Arthur cleared his throat, and shifted uncomfortably in the background. "_Sir_."

"Don't you dare die on me, Bartimaeus of Uruk."

I quickly recovered. "No, you owe me too much."

Apparently satisfied with my answer, Nathaniel let his hands slide off me. He cleared his throat, a blush threatening to spread across his cheeks, probably caused by the show he had just put on in front of his chauffeur. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared with Arthur in the night. But his words lingered.

The noise was looming closer, as steps resounded through the hallway and wings flapped behind.

I looked down at the papers, taking in the power he'd put in my hands. I could very well destroy him with this power, have my revenge. I snorted to myself and these thoughts. Five baby flames appeared on my fingertips and I watched them dance for a moment, as they cast shadows around the cold, empty kitchen.

The steps hesitated for a moment, and then covered the rest of the distance.

The paper crippled and faded to ashes under my gaze. I smiled, wondering what Ptolemy would think of this, suddenly realizing how much I missed him again. However, what perturbed me most of all was that I hadn't been sparing him much thought as of late.

The knob turned decidedly. I ran a hand through my hair, getting into character. The fire went out; the room returned to its glacial quietude. I opened Mr. Fridge the Lonely to get a bottle of water, certain that it shed a hypnotic light on Nathaniel's pale features.

"Oh dear, unexpected visitors. Can I get you anything?" Danielle glared at me from the top of her little nose. Her husband stood behind her with impassive eyes. "Tea? Coffee? I'm afraid we're out of wine." None of them said anything. "No? Truly a pity. Peppermint tea is my specialty. Gets quite the reaction, if I do say so myself."

"Where is ze magician?"

"Oh, it is quite dark. My apologies." I moved around pretending to feel the wall for a light switch. "Must be here somewhere—ah! Here it is." I turned the lights on. "Here is _the_ magician. At your service, Mr. and Mrs. Babineaux. I must say I'm quite impressed by your grand entrance."

"I'm going to ask again. Where is Mandrake?"

They ignored my formalities completely. And here I thought elite people were known for their good manners. Oh well.

I shrugged, and changed tactics. "Who knows? Probably getting himself into trouble again, or working himself to the bone. Might even be hiding in this big house. Would be showering if you hadn't destroyed the bathroom. He's certainly not eating, that's for sure. Oh, if I had to make a wild guess, I would say the library, since he's so fond of those things called books. Then again, you went there already. _Please _tell me you didn't touch those books. He makes me organize them by alphabetical order. Do you _believe _that prat? Truthfully, you should have a good talk with him and let him know I said that. Kids these days."

"We 'ave a chatty one," Danielle commented with a frown of distaste. "We might let you go if you tell us where 'e is, and if you stop with ze rambling."

"How generous."

She grimaced at me, but then composed herself to look as in control of the situation as she could. "Very well. Let's start somewhere else. Why are you in 'is form?"

"Good question," I conceded. "I read his birth name in the documents you failed to hide, and I thought it would be fun to mock him with it."

She narrowed her blue eyes at me, taking a tentative step inside the room. Her husband followed her, eyes locked on me. "'Is birth name was _not _in ze documents."

"Naturally. Couldn't risk giving you the upper hand, eh? That old man sure had some tricks up his sleeve."

"How do you know it then?" Her tone was filled with contained anger, presumably because I knew something she didn't. Which actually is a ridiculous notion since I am clearly a being of far superior intelligence.

"Guessed it from his parents' names." They started slowly moving towards me, but I went the other way around the table. "You try and guess it. I'll give you some clues: starts with S and ends with E."

"I'm not playing games with you, demon."

"Oh, you're no fun." Their steps became more decisive. I adapted mine accordingly. "Let's see… It's a _very _English name. Not so original, I'm afraid."

"Our offer to spare your life weel expire soon. Tell us what you know!" she demanded. See, that's the thing with magicians: they never ask you nicely. Things might have been much different if she had.

"Alright, alright, I hear you. Ready?" I cleared my throat much like pompous Nat would, putting on my best business façade on. "It's Stick Your Nose Elsewhere. Short for Stick Your Big, Snivelling, Human Nose Elsewhere, but that is truly a mouthful, don't you think?"

Danielle glanced at her husband, barely containing her rage anymore, and stopped. "What should we do to zis insolent ginnee, my dear?"

"First, maybe he should know what he's dealing with," Frédéric Babineaux said in a voice I didn't recall to be his. It was lower, resounding from him like he'd been part of a choir for years.

I eyed him warily. "You know, for such a scheming, smart couple, maybe you should have—"

I stopped. Nathaniel's eyes were nearly falling off their sockets from how wide they'd gone. I poked them back inside to better examine what I had in front of me. Now it all made sense. Why he hadn't been at the airport, or at the hotel. Frédéric Babineaux had dropped the disguise on the seventh plane, and there they were, in all their undeserved glory: fiery hooves.

Which could only mean one thing to me: it was time to run.

Without thinking twice, I threw my water bottle at Danielle and, as predicted, the afrit stepped in to cover her. Also as predicted, he hissed in pain when the water bottle exploded against him.

But I wasn't really watching. On my way out, I kicked Mr. Fridge the Lonely down and punted it towards them (16). It made the sweetest of arcs, but again, Babineaux-slash-afrit caught it. However, the high temperature of his essence and gravity had ice melt and rain down on his eyes. He screeched and paced around pressing at them. Danielle watched on in horror from the side. I didn't imitate her. I simply took my leave as graciously as ever.

(16) As you can see, I only name relevant characters to the plot. Mr. Fridge the Lonely will be missed.

Running out of the door and along the hallway, I almost tripped twice on the carpeted floor. I was nearly at the end of it when I heard an angry roar coming from behind me. That nearly made me change forms again, but there was still something I needed to do.

When I got to the entrance, there were flames everywhere, featuring figures fighting fiercely from all the angles you could imagine. (17) Half of the individual duels halted when I came through the hall running for my life, but instantly restarted when I yelled that those following me should be stopped. Only Hodge and Cormocodran seemed to get my point, though. The rest simply returned to their individual conflicts.

(17) Or maybe you could. Imagine a circus. It's pretty similar.

Babineaux was looking quite peeved when I saw him again, and I regret to say it was far too soon for my liking. Hodge and Cormocodran hadn't delayed him for long, and had been smashed against the walls, two bull-sized holes now the testimony to their failure. As for me, I was sent flying towards the library. I crashed into the door and went right through it, falling on my back after an unintended backflip.

I winced as I sat up, but the afrit kicked me, making me collide with a bookshelf before falling down face-first. At this point I had essence oozing from out of one or two wounds. I could barely see Danielle walking—or rather, _parading_—towards me, a grin of satisfaction on her lips.

"Poor little demon," she cooed. "Protecting 'is master. Loyal till the end. It's a shame it'll do you no good. Once we're done with you, we'll find 'im. And when we do, well… 'E won't be as lucky."

I glared at her as menacingly as I could, about to tell her how little it mattered to me what they did to him. However, a distant, approaching sound could be heard over the noise of battles being fought. I smirked in spite of myself. "Well, I do have a few last words to say."

"Where is Mandrake?" The afrit picked me up by the collar with one hand only, lifting me above eye-level. The other hand was ready to fire another spell against me; the energy was sparking around his fingers. "I'm going to torture him for days, and I'll make you watch every second of it if you don't tell us now."

My back was turned to Danielle, but I could hear her breathing heavily, impatient and power-hungry as most of humans are. I craned my neck to be able to see her from out the corner of his eye, but my smirk never faltered.

"Rot in hell."

The spell was cast.

And then nothing.

* * *

_Nathaniel_

Once the emergency meeting was over, and all his obligations dealt with, John Mandrake ignored every one of his colleague's—including the Prime Minister himself—and practically flew over to the hotel room Piper had booked for him.

The emergency Council meeting had been dreadful. After having had Arthur leave the documents on the Prime Minister's mailbox, ring the bell and run for it—something which he'd claimed having a good amount of childhood experience under his belt—Mandrake had warned Jane about the situation at his place and waited—the worst part of it all—for the emergency meeting to be called.

The sun had already risen by the time they had gathered in Westminster, each of them looking robbed of needed sleep. From there, the meeting had dragged on, first with the Prime Minister informing them all of the documents that had mysteriously appeared on his mailbox, and then with the pertinent question of what they should do about them and Danielle Babineaux.

Needless to say, Mortensen had the word 'war' on his mouth every time he opened it to speak. Nathaniel found himself frowning at the idea, especially when Malbindi sided with him, as per usual. However, Devereaux had vetoed the idea nearly as soon as it had been suggested, supported by Jessica Whitwell and Mandrake himself. Which doesn't mean it was less of a shock when he suggested what Bartimaeus had told him to do: grant Jersey their independence. Surely he should have seen the pandemonium coming, but what followed far exceeded his expectations.

Mandrake had tried defending his position using various arguments, namely that the war in America was proving to be fruitless so far, that they had no resources to deal with France at the moment, and that neither France nor Jersey would see this coming, therefore granting them the element of surprise.

The only one to stand by him had been Makepeace, although Mandrake knew not why he was attending this emergency meeting since he wasn't a part of the Council. Jessica Whitwell and Jane Farrar had both left him there in the air to face the Prime Minister's wrath. For once in his life, Mandrake had appreciated the fact that Makepeace seemed to favour him.

A small break later and they were discussing things with the President of France and Jersey's Bailiff as had been previously scheduled. It was glaringly apparent that Jersey's Bailiff was fed up with this half-assed arrangement they had. And, just as Bartimaeus had predicted, his suggestion was taken with genuine, blissful surprise. That was from Jersey, at least. The President of France wasn't pleased in the least, about anything.

The point is Nathaniel didn't care one bit. His whole career could burn up in flames and he'd roast marshmallows over the fire as long as Bartimaeus was alive and well. Jane hadn't found any djinn alive with the exception of Cormocodran and Hodge, who Nathaniel had immediately dismissed to recover. The little part of his logical self which remained with him had told her that Aileen had been murdered in the assault, and it certainly did not take one bit of effort to act the part of an upset groom-to-be. To his surprise, Jane had actually looked somewhat taken aback and sorry for him. But all that had been forgotten the moment negotiations started.

Truth be told, he was still moving thanks to coffee—an atrocious beverage he wanted nothing to do with as soon as he got himself in bed—and a huge amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Arthur had helped too, choosing loud, unbearable music that got on his nerves so he would stay awake all the way to Westminster and later towards the hotel.

It was a rather small room, since Piper hadn't gotten the chance to find anything better in such short notice, but it was clean and tidy, which sufficed. He'd slept in way worse conditions before. The double bed was glued to the wall, and there were only one bedside table, an armchair, and a small wardrobe to make up for it. There was a floor-to-ceiling window that wasn't wide, but got the room a nice amount of natural light. Which at the moment felt like the sun itself was burning his eyes, so the first thing Nathaniel did after throwing his bag onto the armchair was close the blinds, followed by kicking the rug out of the way and under the bed.

He wasn't sure how his hands had worked to draw the pentacles, or if he had just winged it and hoped it worked and that he got every syllable right and that Bartimaeus would be the one to appear and not some spirit he had never met. Right now his brain was screaming 'option b' at him.

His inner magician saved him, nonetheless; not that he stayed in his pentacle long enough to celebrate, anyway. Because the second a hint of dark skin materialized before him, Nathaniel's feet had grown wings. He flew over to the other side of the room in a blink of an eye, actually meeting halfway with Bartimaeus in a tight embrace that somehow had the world stop for a moment or two, derisive comments running out of his mouth with how emotionally charged he felt.

Nathaniel's heart was hammering so hard in his chest, but he didn't care. Bartimaeus was hugging him. Tightly. Voluntarily. When he could just kill him, or leave, or both. The weight of the world just vanished there, and it dawned on him how exhausted he really was when he realized he couldn't pull away from more reasons than the fact that he didn't exactly want to.

Bartimaeus muttered something along the lines of ungrateful magicians being ungrateful magicians, and Nathaniel only held on tighter, afraid this might be a dream his exhausted brain had concocted. He was being driven over the edge with this amount of emotion swirling inside him.

Bartimaeus patted his back. "There, there. Mistakes were made. Nobody's perfect. Hope you feel better now that I've thrown some cliché sentences at you. Those took a lot out of me."

"Shut up, you brat." Bartimaeus made an indignant sound, but Nathaniel ignored him. "I was losing my mind, I… I was _so_ scared." Bartimaeus' hands stopped patting him at that. He felt his fake muscles untie and relax, making Nathaniel sink further into his embrace. His hands restarted then, rubbing the whole length of his back this time. Nathaniel seriously didn't need another reason to stay there longer, but so be it. "I didn't know if you'd be quick enough, and when Jane told me they'd only found Hodge and Cormocodran, I—"

"_Please_," Bartimaeus grumbled. "Don't insult me. I had everything under absolute control. Besides, I sure showed that Danielle. She must be roasted right now."

"She's dead."

"Oh."

"Died during surgery."

"So you know her husband…?"

Nathaniel nodded against Bartimaeus shoulder, and sniffled. When had he started crying? He couldn't tell. He only knew he was so tired and relieved, and on edge because of all that damned coffee and adrenaline, and that his brain just wasn't working anymore. Maybe those had conspired to make him lose all control over himself.

"Have you eaten?"

Nathaniel had to stifle a sob. Out of all the things to ask, Bartimaeus had decided to ask the least logical one. "Yes," he choked out.

"Who forced you?"

"…Arthur."

Bartimaeus laughed. "Obviously."

Nathaniel laughed too, and more tears fell. Bartimaeus loosed the hug to wipe them with his fingers, not making one scathing comment about how foolish Nathaniel was being at the moment. Bartimaeus let his eyes wander along his face, and Nathaniel could barely keep himself together with how intensely Bartimaeus was looking at him. He brushed his fingertips along Nathaniel's eyebrow wound, apparently transfixed by it.

"You've treated it."

"Yes."

"Who forced you?"

"…Arthur."

"You're just no good, are you?"

Nathaniel blinked up at him, conflicted, partly sure this wasn't true in the least, but also conceding that he wasn't very good at minding his health. However, his brain truly came to a halt when Bartimaeus kissed his forehead. Nathaniel tilted his head against it, seeking contact, heart big and full, overflowing.

"I take it you made it?" Bartimaeus asked against his forehead after a while.

"Yes, thanks to you."

Bartimaeus smirked. "History books better agree with you."

Nathaniel smiled sheepishly. "I'll do my best to make that come true. And…and you were right about Jersey."

"Naturally."

"I seriously don't know how I managed to convince the Prime Minister. Or rather, I do know. Makepeace backed me up, for some reason."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short; you can be _very _persuasive. Unnervingly so."

Nathaniel didn't know what he meant by that. He didn't know why they were still holding each other like this. He didn't know why Bartimaeus hadn't dismissed himself to the Other Place when he had the liberty to do so. He did know this situation felt alien to him, but that he wouldn't trade it for all the power in the world right now.

"Did you burn the documents?" he managed to ask in a whisper.

Bartimaeus nodded, brushing their foreheads together as he did so. Nathaniel didn't comment on it, fearing Bartimaeus might stop if he did. "There's now no proof you're the son of a maniac who tried to bring The Empire to ruins by selling his kid to magicians, only to track him down later in life."

Nathaniel snorted bitterly. "That's one way of putting it. Unfortunately, there's also no proof my mother was the one who stopped him, that she saved us all in a way."

"By protecting you. You wouldn't want all that to be for naught, would you?"

Nathaniel shook his head, not trusting his voice to say anything about that. It was all clear in his head now. How his father had never found him during his stay at the Underwoods, how he'd been close to it, and how he'd lost track of him again after the fire. He had always had an accomplice—that was how he had chosen his victims. And if that alone wasn't enough, the entire support of Danielle and the phony Frédéric. Nathaniel couldn't grasp why Danielle would go to the extent of killing her own husband for this.

He looked up at Bartimaeus, deeming it beyond impossible to do such thing to him, and feeling his face get hotter. In doing so, he noticed Bartimaeus seemed to be struggling about whether or not fill the silence.

"I'm sure she's proud of you…um, wherever she is now."

Nathaniel let his lips form a small smile in appreciation. He tilted his head to see Bartimaeus' eyes better. "Thank you for that," he whispered. He didn't think much of it too. It was natural to whisper when you were this close to someone else, wasn't it? But really, was it normal to be so close to someone else?

"Right." Bartimaeus cleared his throat, clearly bothered by something. "That took a lot out of me. Be sure to appreciate it."

Nathaniel's face broke into a grin again, and he wondered how long this would last, if Bartimaeus had gotten the message he had so desperately been trying to get across. And he felt so tired, and he needed to sleep. His body was made of lead, but Bartimaeus was holding him like he weighted no more than a feather.

"Nathaniel."

"Hm?" When had his forehead found Bartimaeus' again?

A pause. "Let's get you in bed."

Nathaniel obstinately shook his head, because he _needed _Bartimaeus to understand this was not just another case of their giving in to the tension. He gathered his wits as best he could, squeezing them for his intelligence. His brain had never failed him, and if he could draw a useless clutter of lines on the floorboards of the hotel room, then he could very well talk without sounding like a drunken man. He felt his blood boil. This was all so very frustrating.

He broke free from the hug. "You are always contradicting yourself, you know that?"

"What did I do now?"

"You _are_," Nathaniel insisted, not sure why he was now going this way. This mood swing had come as unexpectedly as the crying.

"Humans truly don't appreciate innovation."

"That has nothing to do with anything. I'm just saying you confuse me."

"Well, you surely _cannot_ be trying to compare our IQ—"

"_Bartimaeus_," Nathaniel stressed, reaching his limit. "Your actions and your words don't match."

Bartimaeus shrugged. "I'm talkative, so I communicate mostly with words. What are you getting at?"

"You say you want to kill me and yet you saved me on Halloween when there was nothing forcing you to do so, _and_," he emphasized before Bartimaeus could interrupt, "you haven't killed or tortured me since I left the pentacle, completely unprotected and at your mercy. And you said you wanted me to live, and you had my scar on your chin when you turned into me. You are so, _so_—"

"Such a nice djinni. Probably _the _nicest you'll ever find and certainly one you don't deserve."

Nathaniel grit his teeth, conflicted. "I won't deny the truth of that statement."

A pause, and then: "Blimey, did anyone hear that? Hell will freeze over today!" Bartimaeus spun his head to and fro in a presumed search for another living soul. "Seriously, was _no one _listening? How's that fair!"

"At least _I _don't have a problem admitting I'm an absolute beginner at this, and that I do want to give it a try." Nathaniel glared at Bartimaeus to stress his point, but then he sighed, weathering his temper. "I promise I won't ask more than you can give me, and that I'll practice being patient. And that I'll be discreet and not ruin your reputation or anything of the sort."

"Are you reciting your vows to me?"

Nathaniel blushed a deep red. "I was just—" Bartimaeus was grinning broadly. Nathaniel drew himself up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, what if I was?"

Bartimaeus was staring at him strangely again. It made his stomach feel funny with the way his eyes had gone so soft and his smile looked so bloody genuine. And now Bartimaeus' hands were on his, pulling him closer, and he actually looked _happy _about it.

"What about me? What should I change?"

"Well, you could very well stop being so skeptical about this, but…I'm fine with you being the way you are. Just stop with this game of chase." Nathaniel squeezed Bartimaeus' hands. "I'm going crazy here."

Bartimaeus' smile only grew wider. "Oh? And what should I call you? Something cliché, perhaps? My love? My dear? Sweetheart? Honey? Pratty pumpkin? Insufferable sweetie? Annoying duckling?"

Nathaniel managed to pull a nice combination of a hearty blush with a glare. He had just about had it with Bartimaeus.

"Oh, for bloody God's—"

Nathaniel had missed these kisses more than he'd imagined he would. And it certainly had been too long if one didn't count that small, desperate kiss they'd shared in the kitchen. Besides, Bartimaeus rarely ever kissed him slowly, and Nathaniel remembered the times he had with fond affection. But right now there was urgency behind the apparent calm rhythm, as if Bartimaeus would like to take his time, but was running out of it.

That afternoon Bartimaeus undressed him just like he was a porcelain doll, tracing the outlines of his body as if he wanted to memorize it. Nathaniel was too exhausted for them to go any further than that, but Bartimaeus didn't seem to mind one bit, as he led them to the bed and had Nathaniel tucked in earlier than he would have liked.

Nathaniel, in spite of his drowsiness, couldn't find the heart to just let this opportunity slide. Therefore, as they lay awake counting scars, Nathaniel asked Bartimaeus all sorts of questions, and Bartimaeus told him of his past and the places he'd been to, the people he'd met, without feeling the need to impress anyone. There was only one question Bartimaeus avoided—that of the form he preferred, and Nathaniel pressed no further, tired as he was of arguments and bickering.

He fell asleep like that, nestled up against Bartimaeus, in the middle of a question, of a conversation about distant places and dead people, of myths and magic and the truth, of a future so uncertain. But he knew that the next time he woke up things would inevitably change, and that he would find Bartimaeus exactly where he was now, holding him, kissing his hair, and playing with his fingers like they'd never been any other way but this.

* * *

**Holy crap, isn't this a long chapter. Okay, I'm dead. Very, very dead. This is what happens when I try to outline my chapters, haha. I royally suck at planning! But hey, maybe this length makes up for my silence? Let me know.**

**This last part with Nathaniel so sleep-deprived, and just plain emotional and touchy didn't even take that much effort to write. Which means I'm probably on my way to a nap. Or to hibernate. ****Yeah, hibernating sounds fucking amazing, honestly. Let's go with that.**

**Anyway, fandom day is approaching and dammit if I won't do something about it. Let's hope it means I'm on time. Who's participating in fandom day, hum? Let's see those hands in the air.**


	15. 14-Search&Research (Bartimaeus Fanday)

**Poem (found on deviantArt): ****iii-making-history-535783897**

**Welcome to what-if scenario number one. In other words, ignore chapter 13 (or 4, if you're following the update order) ever happened!**

**And for once I have nothing else to say. Go on, be shocked.**

* * *

_every second spent__  
__in this in-between __  
__we are __  
__making history._

**iii. making history****,** **BleedingProphecies**

* * *

Nathaniel was sitting cross-legged inside his pentacle—an odd sight to behold, even two years after the Glass Palace 'accident'—when I materialized in my preferred form in front of him. I could tell there was something off the moment I did (1), but he was so focused on the books and sheets of paper he had organized in neat piles around himself I didn't think much of it at first.

(1) For one, my pentacle was perfectly drawn, and there was no gap for me to escape and walk around freely. The rest will have to wait, mostly for plot reasons.

"Hello," he said without so much as glancing up.

I frowned. What was I, another spirit he had summoned? The mailman? Arthur? The cleaning lady? One of his peers? Kitty? Please. I need not remind you of all of my titles, do I? I trust even a human being can't be that forgetful.

"Hello," I greeted back, adding for good measure, "_my love_."

It worked as it always does. Nathaniel stopped—pencil secure between his fingers, in the middle of a sentence and an easy smile. Finally looking up at me, he said, "Hi. Sorry, I'm just wrapping up. How are you?"

"Splendid. Would be even better if you'd let me out of this pentacle. You know, so I could properly greet you and whatnot."

His grin widened, revealing a set of irritatingly perfect white teeth. "That sounds lovely, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait a bit." He raised a palm to silence me before I had the chance to start with my empty threats. "Don't you feel any different?"

"Yes," I pouted, "betrayed."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes at me—yes, _really_—and said, "You know what I mean. Haven't you noticed anything at all? No minor changes whatsoever?"

"Now you insult me. I'm afraid you aren't doing yourself any favours, mister. I might stop doing _that thing _you love so much."

Nathaniel's face paled in alarm. "You wouldn't," he mumbled.

"Oh, but I would." I smirked, thoroughly pleased with this turning of tables.

"Bartimaeus…"

"No more baking cinnamon cookies at ungodly hours if I don't get out of this pentacle in the next thirty seconds. And where the heck are we, anyway? This isn't your new fancy apartment in London."

Nathaniel regained his colour shortly after that, letting out a seriously off-timed relieved sigh, and slumped back down into work mode. That granted him an indignant look over.

I was speaking the truth, anyway. We were in a small, shoddy bedroom. The walls were of old red granite, and decorated with small cracks here and there. There was a bunk bed wooden frame pushed against the wall, but only one mattress on the bottom. Allied to that, there was a dark wooden wardrobe with a door falling off, and a green armchair with a prominent red wine stain. His bag was on top of it. Nathaniel had, as is usual, moved everything in order to draw the pentacles; this time having had to draw them extremely close together due to lack of space.

"Very well," he said with a smile. It was seriously starting to get to me how much he's smiling nowadays. It makes me feel all mushy and stuff. Ugh. Stupid Nathaniel. "I'm conducting an experiment."

"And I'm your lab mouse," I deadpanned, more than a little wary of the idea. I turned into one to emphasize my point.

"Oh, don't be like that," he said, throwing his weight a bit backwards to express how ridiculous I was being. His back nearly broke the wards. Well, excuse me if I don't like being tested on. He must have guessed as much from my glare, because next he added: "But I need you to cooperate, please. There's no one else I can ask. It's for a good cause too!"

"Sure, sure. Because you're so noble now," I grumbled. I had become Ptolemy again just for the sake of crossing my arms at him.

Nathaniel sighed and eyed me with infinite patience. My essence immediately reciprocated, calming down into a moderate swirling. I chastised myself for it; why should this prat be able to do such thing to me? I quickly gathered my wits back.

Looking out the opened window at my right, which revealed no more than a cloudless sky, I continued my speech: "Besides, haven't you been acting so friendly towards those other spirits you've been summoning? Why not ask them instead? _Not _to mention Kitty. Where's she at, anyway? Pray tell, she's not spending the night again, is she?"

Nathaniel blinked at me, a repressed amused grin tugging at the corners of his lips. The corners of his mouth showcased fine lines not usually seen on a man his age. "Please tell me nothing of that is real jealousy." From his tone, I could tell he was trying to keep laughter away from his voice, but I could still hear a lilt to it.

I shrugged noncommittally. "Not that I care one bit."

Nathaniel's eyebrows shot up in his forehead. "_Right_." He cleared his throat, and brushed his hair away from his eyes. A tuft of gray hair gently fell back into place. "I would scoot over and _show _you how ridiculous you're being, but we have some work to do."

I threw a good look to the skies—or rather, so I might not offend my nitpick-y readers: the ceiling—above, cursing myself for my failed strategy; because, really, like _I _had the time or energy to be jealous over something as petty as that. No, not Bartimaeus of Uruk, N'gorso the Mighty.

"I'll hold you to that."

"Do so."

"Good."

"Good."

He was still smiling, clearly excited about this little project of his. Our starting competition didn't last very long this time. My frown soon melted into a softer look as I sighed, not really in the mood for bickering.

"Fine. What are we doing?"

He lit up like a Christmas tree, and leaned forward before realizing he would undo everything if he made that mistake. Truthfully, he's become so comfortable around me that I'm not surprised.

"Yes, yes, you're almost there."

He laughed at himself and me, mirroring my amusement. It seems like it was so long ago that we didn't trust each other enough to drop the act. I know I took my time believing he could be serious about our little arrangement, because he's human, after all, and I've had my share of disappointment. But this is Nathaniel—stubborn, ambitious, annoying Nathaniel, who refuses to give things up until results show.

Besides, if after the case of the Afrit, the Envelope and the Ambassador's wife I still had my lingering doubts, they were silenced when he and I shared body and mind. (2) As I silenced his.

(2) A traumatizing experience up to this day. Just be grateful I didn't go all compatibility mode on your arses.

If I am to be honest, the moment Kitty summoned me to say Nathaniel had been asking for me after the Glass Palace heroic handling by yours truly, I fell victim to a rare weak moment. I flew over to his side in less than five minutes, Kitty secure under my armpit.

That's how she found out about us, if you were wondering. Funny thing is she didn't seem to be all that surprised to see me practically crush Nathaniel into a bear hug, whispering embarrassing things I shall not repeat. (3) If anything, she was apparently as relieved as me to see him recover so well.

(3) You're welcome.

Nathaniel broke me out of my musings. "So, you see that I've removed the herbs and runes, yes? And that I've changed most of the words in the summons." I opened my mouth to speak, but he was now in his little world, letting this little speech he had probably prepared for weeks roll off his tongue like water. "At any rate, I believe the reason you didn't notice right away might be because I succeeded."

"Are you trying to tell me—"

"Yes!" He was beaming now, but all I could do was stare, mesmerized by the sheer thought of the impossible becoming possible. "You just left the Other Place, therefore it wouldn't be a shock to enter a similar environment. That is, taking in account the fact you were probably expecting pain."

I shook my head to gather my wits back. "Are you trying to tell me you're working on a new type of pentacle?"

"Indeed."

"But that's—"

"I know, I know. It just seemed appropriate seeing as we're…together?" He paused, looking to me for confirmation. Then, before I could give or deny it, he gestured widely to the mess around him. "Anyway, I've been doing a lot of research, as you can see, but I still can't reach my primary goal."

"Which is?"

"Healing," he stated. "I don't just want to refrain from hurting your essence, since the moment you leave that pentacle the effect will undoubtedly fade. I want this pentacle to heal."

I nodded. "You know, for someone as intelligent as you claim to be, to the extent of creating a new type of pentacle, you should have been able to figure out what we are."

"Of all the things I've said, that's what you retain." He fiddled with the pages of a random book he had in front of him. "And well, it's complicated."

"Hm, might work."

He sighed at my lack of seriousness, and I figured it was time to get up and leave this pentacle. I did so: in the blink of an eye I was sitting on his lap. He gasped, surprised, and I took the opportunity to properly greet him.

When I pulled apart a few moments later, he had his hands about me, and had forgotten all about this mission of his.

"Hello," I sang mockingly.

"How did you…?" he asked in a breathless whisper.

"You're just too careless around me." I shrugged. "When you gestured to the books just now," I added, to clear it up.

"Oh."

"Yes."

He paused to collect his thoughts. "Actually, Bartimaeus, in order to complete this pentacle, I might need to do some major changes. Maybe even find some material here at Earth which spirits could draw energy from." He looked up at me. "Therefore, I have one favour to ask."

"This can't be good."

"I need to have access to Ptolemy's research. Not a copy, or a translation. I need the original manuscripts."

I hummed. "That could be arranged."

"Really?" he asked, probably stunned by how easy it had been.

"_Please_," I said. "Who do you think I am?"

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

I rolled my eyes at him, and kept walking down the stairs and dragging him along. "Not since the last time you've asked."

He ignored me. "I still can't believe a place like that exists."

"Well, you might want to start believing, because your chin is about to drop."

He laughed, and reached a hand up to tug at his blindfold. I stopped him, reminding him of our deal, and he huffed out his frustrated agreement. Nathaniel moved down another set of steps, one hand at the wall and the other grabbing my forearm.

"It's your fault if this is going slowly. Slowpoke."

"Oh, be quiet, you."

I laughed quietly at that, something I'd been finding easier to do for a while now, and he soon joined me. Our laughter echoed off the walls, and I liked the sound of it, of sharing this with him and his willingness to follow along.

When he reached the last step, I opened the wooden, rundown door. The joints creaked even though they were surely the most recent acquisition of this place. Nathaniel took that as a cue to loosen the blindfold and I went inside, searching his face for a reaction.

It came as soon as he followed me in: his eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks, mouth slightly parted in a mute claim of admiration. He pointed, looking to me for confirmation, and then resumed his state of wonder.

The hidden library was a large cave dug underground built of big mudbricks, which had been studied and expanded over time to incorporate newfound knowledge. It had been arranged to look like the real Alexandria library, although the lack of natural light gave it a more sombre look. Will-o'-the-wisps floated about unperturbed by our presence, vaguely illuminating the rows of shelves filled with dusty papyrus rolls.

There was a large hall welcoming us, which I knew had been added later due to the Corithian columns circling it. A water feature was the centerpiece, and small, fake plants had been put around it to give this place some sense of life.

I could feel remnants of magic waving from everywhere, mixing with the dust sparkling in the air due to the will-o'-the-wisps magical fire. It was not an aggressive type of energy, but rather a solemn one, hinting at diligent guardians being at a trigger charm's reach. I remember fellow spirits having cast torrents of charms to enchant the papyrus scrolls to return to their rightful place after having been put down by a visitor, and many more to preserve this place for eternity.

Ptolemy's naked feet rubbed the soil beneath. Toes recoiled, dragging small pieces of dry mud along, like thousands of years hadn't passed since the last time they had done so. There, right under his toes, was a message written in Old Greek (4):

(4) I also remember having seen that being written. Ptolemy had chosen the very words that were now engraved on the soil beneath his feet.

_If knowledge is what thou seek, we welcome thee. However, all should be left as it was found. One infraction costs thy life._

Nathaniel reached for my hand and I took his, not knowing until then I needed it. My form was flickering; I could now tell by the way his hand felt tangible in one moment and the next it didn't. He laced his fingers in mine, squeezed my hand gently, and I trekked back three years in time, when he and I were standing before his mother's grave. I had done the exact same thing.

"Do you want some time alone?"

I shook my head—Ptolemy's head. No. Absolutely not. And I wasn't going to begin to explain to him how important his presence was for me at that moment. "No. I brought you here for your research. He would have wanted you to succeed."

Nathaniel knew all about Ptolemy at that point, not that I ever talked about him. My memories, however, had showed him all he needed to know. It made him feel uneasy sometimes, I could tell, but he mostly dealt well with it. Especially since I didn't let him dwell on it long enough.

"Time seems to have stopped here," he commented in an amazed breath.

"It has," I said. "This is probably spirits and humans' finest work together, one would say."

"Not so disdainful of books now, are you?"

"I've learned some are not so bad," I conceded. I knew he was grinning without having to look. "This place always reminds me of such. I keep coming here between charges, whenever I can sneak out for a while, and although changes have been made, I'm always taken aback by how minimal they are."

Nathaniel turned to me, astounded, having figured it out. "You built this!"

"I did. Me and twenty more spirits. It was slow work, since these bricks are made of dried mud and straw. We had to wait for them to dry and then carry them here. And we had to be discreet about it to boot. Several magicians worked together to ensure this would withstand forever." I paused, looking around, recalling every single mudbrick I had placed and where. "Ptolemy was one of them. He believed empires could fall, but that knowledge should be immortal and accessible to all."

He nodded along, drinking every word I delivered. "I thought all of this was gone. But now…_now _it could be possible."

We let go of each other then, in favour of exploring. It didn't take me long to find Ptolemy's research, truth be told. The charms were working perfectly to maintain order in this place.

I found Nathaniel immersed in another set of papyrus scrolls, notebook and pen at the ready (5). He received Ptolemy's research with solemn respect and gratitude, and glanced at me as if asking for permission. I nodded to let him know I was okay with this turn of event.

(5) Old habits die hard. Need more proof? Check his drawers for peppermint gum, I dare you.

Truth be told, I was more than okay with it. Not that Nathaniel needed to prove anything to me at this point: he'd been to the Other Place a total of three times now, something which showed on his prematurely aging body.

"This is so quiet and remote I can't help but feel like we're intruding," he said, looking around for any sign that our presence was unwelcome.

"No worries, my fretful little dove." He deadpanned at my nickname. "These will-o-the-wisps don't intend to make you their dinner."

"What are we, then?"

"Visitors." I smiled. "And today we are making history."

* * *

**I'm going to be honest with you and say this has to be my least favorite chapter so far. I like the idea, but I think I could have done much better hadn't lack of time and motivation gotten in the way. I'll probably fix it, though, since it frustrates me so much.**

**Anway, next one up is Nat's birthday in November. Hopefully I'll have my muse back by then. If you find her, ship her over. She's found of flying off on her own sometimes.**

**That being said, happy Bartimaeus fanday!**


End file.
